


Waning Crescent

by W_H_4_T



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Conversations, Bear Dad was so sad and now dad is not sad, Blackwall is a proven simp, Blood and Injury, Drama & Romance, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Forgiveness, Friendship, Getting Back Together, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Idiots in Love, Partner Betrayal
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:09:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 26,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29696910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/W_H_4_T/pseuds/W_H_4_T
Summary: "Everyone hides dead things" Cole had told him.He wears names like armour, she wields smiles like swords.The Liar, The Lady and the fragments of time that bring them together.***Alternate Title: Bear Dad falls in love with Lady Prim, Proper and oh so Prudish.
Relationships: Blackwall | Thom Rainier/Josephine Montilyet, Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet
Kudos: 1





	1. In the Shadow of the Arcing Moon

**Author's Note:**

> So this was a work, then it was a series then i thought no it works better as a thing with chapters. Its staying like this and if i try to move it, feel free to bonk me on my idiot head.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hidden in the half-shadow are the marks on his skin. He's in her grip, the Queen of Coins and he hopes, by the Maker, that she continues holding on.  
> ***  
> Fragments of time between a Wordsmith and her Warden  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel the lyrics of [Tamino-Cigar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hi-xgdKIIxo) really strong (like SUPER STRONG) for this story on a whole
> 
> This pairing is like a love letter (ish) to the pairing that never got to be (ish). Those two make me cry, ok. 
> 
> _La splendeur des coeurs perdus_ can kiss my enraged ass
> 
> That is all.

The Silverite helm caught the sun’s gleam as he passed the cloth over the metal once more. It wasn’t necessary to have the gear this primped; shiny shit did nothing to deflect swords, in fact, it was more eye-catching to the enemy. Even so, that didn’t mean the helm didn’t deserve to be so well-kept. It was the memento of a man who deserved respect; to handle his armour with care was Blackwall’s silent way of atonement. 

Every pass of the cloth was his way of thanking a righteous man.

Blackwall sat on a crate of supplies as he continued poring over the helm; his mind never relaxed despite the safety of Haven. It was better to always be alert, to see danger before it could strike. To be ever vigilant as the Warden’s code commanded. 

That’s why he was able to hear the soft crunching of snow growing closer, even as the blacksmiths pounded their hammers against steel. Even as the noise of the forge waged war with the rustle of trees. 

The Warden never lifted his head, instead allowing this person to walk towards him with a steady gait.

“Good day, Ser Blackwall,” came a sweet voice from nearby, “How are you finding your accommodations?”

The cloth stills as the Warden finally lifts his eyes to see the intruder. His expression is the same heavy-lined, brooding mask but beneath, he’s smiling. 

Ambassador Montilyet had a way of bringing the joy out in people. She had this lovely knowing, tempered smile and a voice so soft, so genuine that he refused to believe that woman was a noble. In his book, nobles were petty, repugnant creatures with more coin than sense.

“Ser?” came Josephine again, her smile never once fading. 

Blinking away the thoughts, Blackwall pulled himself back to reality as he tried his best to maintain eye contact with the Ambassador. 

“All’s well, My Lady,” he speaks with a friendly tone, a far cry from his normal grunting huffs, “I have everything I need here,” he pats his hand on his helm before giving a small nod, “Thank you for checking in.”

“Wonderful. Do let me know if there is anything you need. I would be more than happy to assist.” she says in that usual, delighted chirp. 

Blackwall had been to Antiva a few times in his life but never had he heard anyone with a voice as delectable as the good Lady’s.

“I doubt I’ll need anything but I appreciate it, Lady Montilyet,” he says, his eyes flicking away from Josephine’s, “And not to be ungrateful but...you could have sent a runner to check on me.”

It’s Josephine’s turn to look away, at first, her eyes landing on the Breach, watching the swirling green swallow the sky. It was not polite to look away when speaking to another person but the diplomat found her face flush slightly when probed with that specific question. 

“As the Inquisition’s Ambassador, it is my duty to ensure all new members are properly settled,” she finally regains her nerve to look at the taciturn man, “I thought, as you belong to the Inner Circle, that I should speak with you directly.”

There’s a small pause before Blackwall nods slowly, accepting the Ambassador's practised speech, before he cracks a rare smile. His face forgoes the weathered dismay so often held and for once, he appears as a simple man unbothered by his sins. 

“Thank you for coming all this way in the snow,” he says, his voice gentle as a Ferelden Forder, “Let me know if I can assist you in any way as well, My Lady.”

“Josephine,” the Ambassador sputters before she can stop herself. 

Blackwall is taken aback by the sudden outburst before the Antivan continues, “Please, call me Josephine. There is no need for titles when it is just the two of us.”

Bringing a gloved hand over his beard, the Warden brushes the forked strands of bushy black hair, “Alright...Josephine.” he speaks, the name rolling off his tongue with ease. 

His voice is like a tremor, a reverberating echo resounding through Josephine’s chest. She’s heard her name many times before but Blackwall treats it with care, like a precious gem as he speaks. The golden scarf moves slightly as she gulps; how could one scruffy Warden be so damningly charming without intending to be!

They both stand in a short, awkward silence before Josephine attempts to signal a farewell. The conversation shifts from something easy to extremely difficult; for a seasoned veteran of debate, this type of problem should not have occurred for her 

And yet it did, all because one Warden smiled at her.

“I...I must attend to my duties now, Warden Blackwall,” she tries to say with authority.

“Just Blackwall is fine,” the brooding man replies, a smirk standing out from behind his beard, “And again, thanks for everything.”

She was supposed to reply, supposed to respond with some well-meaning sentence or beautifully crafted word. Instead, Josephine gathered up her indigo dress, giving a small curtsey, before taking off in the other direction. Every step she made towards the Chantry was punctuated by an internal chiding of her foolish behaviour. Years of training, wasted.

Cresting the stairs to Haven’s entrance, Josephine stopped for a moment as she recalled the docile smile on the Warden’s face, his grey eyes alight with an emotion other than despair for once. 

She wouldn’t say it out loud but he was rather handsome, despite his unkempt...everything.

* * *

Morale was difficult to keep up, especially when whole families had been torn apart. Corypheus was a son of a bitch, attacking a village of innocents like that. The monster would pay, that much was certain. He had to pay. Everyone, at some point, had to pay for their sins. 

Blackwall had since settled into his new home; the stables had been his claim despite the odd looks Dennett gave him. It was a private space, away from prying eyes, away from noise, away from everyone but the horses and his thoughts. It was a damn sight better than some of the places he’d stayed before, that much was certain. He flattened his bedroll beneath his fists, right next to the small window on the second floor. Tactics were his life’s work, no matter where he was, he would always be on alert, the window serving as his sentry even in the safe walls of Skyhold.

And as he thought of safety, in the near darkness of the stables, he thought of a certain Antivan woman who seemed no worse for wear despite the tragedy of Haven. 

The keyword was _seemed_. 

Blackwall had seen a great many things in his life and that face Josephine wore reminded him of an Orlesian general he once knew. The man had witnessed every form of loss but kept his emotions tightly sealed. 

It would only be natural that Josephine, a master of the Game, was able to express that level of control; it was commendable really, if not a little sad. 

Patting out all the dust from his modest bedding, Blackwall turned his attention out the window, scanning the small crowds of refugees as they shuffled ever onwards.

He had an idea of how to boost morale, or in this case, a bad mood. It would not be a widespread affair as, if it worked, would only affect one person. 

And she looked like she needed a pick me up.

* * *

The mountains went on for miles and if he peered past a few slopes, he could barely make out the path they all took to spy Skyhold. Though he was no gentleman, Blackwall tried his best to be as courteous as possible when walking with Josephine, standing at her side, but not too close, keeping his gaze respectful and his words, clean. 

With his hands behind his back, Blackwall inspected the battlements by Josephine’s side who tried her best to understand the various, broken down strategies he spoke of. There were moments of companionable silence however, that didn’t interrupt the flow of their conversation, that enhanced their time together. The motley pair stood side by side, both looking to a horizon that stretched on forever. Josephine made a small noise as a breeze tore through her ostentatious garb, causing her to hug herself as the wind stole the warmth from her body. A few tendrils of black hair uncurled from her neat bun, flying past her eyes, tempting Blackwall to tuck them back into place with careful hands. 

No, absolutely not. Lady Josephine trusted him enough to follow him to the battlements alone. Control yourself, man. 

The sound of buckles jingling caught Josephine’s attention through the shivering and before she could speak, she found herself swaddled in a huge coat. 

“I’m sorry if that’s untoward, Josephine,” Blackwall says in apology, “but you looked cold and it seemed the right thing to do.”

Instead of chiding, the Ambassador snuggles into the coat slightly which radiates warmth; Blackwall is in a thin shirt which she doubts offers any protection from the elements. He was impossibly chivalrous; borderline stubborn. 

She assuages his worry with a mumbled reply as she buries herself in the trademark coat, allowing herself to be swallowed by the material as she listens to Blackwall speak about battlement tactics. The overcoat smells of hay and sawdust, earthy scents for a down to earth man, melting into the floral perfume she wore. Silently, she thought, the combination was fitting. 

As he moves, gesticulating at the best points of ambush, she sees the fabric of his shirt tense from his muscles, honed from years of a warrior’s discipline. There are scars peeking from the collar of his shirt and Josephine wonders about the stories behind each and every one. 

Blackwall was a mysterious man, with little information about himself and yet, with every unknown, he kept hidden in those serious silvery eyes, the more Josephine craved an answer. This taciturn man was so very dangerous but as he looked back at her, a smile on his face as he continued explaining, she saw nought but a contradiction; a peaceful warrior in all his valiant glamour. 

* * *

“Golden, glittering, graceful but not gaudy.”

If Blackwall hated the Spirit, he would have clobbered him. Instead, he bore that comment with gritted teeth, knowing that the boy didn’t mean any offence; his intent was as pure as his soul. Cole continued, unaware of the upset boiling in Blackwall as he laid bare his deepest secrets. Maker’s bleeding balls, with the way Cole described his thoughts, he sounded like a blasted pervert. 

It was a short reprimand that silenced the Spirit and though he made his usual moping face, he sensed that Blackwall didn’t mean his chide in malice. They all continued on their trek as the Warden lagged behind with the odd boy to secure the back of the group.

His mind is never rested, always alert, especially since enemies could appear anywhere, from the bushes, from the trees, in caves. The Emerald Graves were known for all kinds of odd creatures and stragglers appearing from the depths; it would not do to be unaware.

Vigilance.

For a moment, there’s a twinge of hurt that passes like a wave through Blackwall then through Cole. The Spirit begins to open his mouth before its clamped closed by a look Blackwall gives, something acrid.

“You’re a good man, good because you try even when it's easier to just hide.” Cole whispers, his hat tilted down, shielding the bright blue of his eyes, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, stupid, courageous, caring, compassionate man. He dies in a hole while his medallion remains.”

“Be quiet.” the Warden growls dangerously.

Though lacking in social graces, Cole can still sense people’s boundaries and refuses to push. Instead, he looks away, walking with Blackwall through the brush and overgrowth of the path they’re on, dutifully following the Inquisitor.

The songs of birds are joined by a weak voice, powerful in its will to help but lacking in talent for singing. 

Cole hums some small tune that brings Blackwall from his anger immediately. It washes over the dour man like sunlight; a tune he caught while he walked in the Chantry back when Haven still stood. A song that emanated from the Ambassador’s office, barely heard behind the heavy door yet lilting enough to cut through.

An Antivan folk song that reminded him of a beautiful, intelligent woman, bathed in golden, glittering and graceful hues. Cole gave a small smile as Blackwall’s thoughts reset into that well-worn groove, so often the Warden’s mind drifted to Josephine that Cole considered it the Warden’s happy place.

When things looked rough for the man, when he looked ready to bite, to snap, to bend under the weight of his past, Cole tried his best to lead him back, to help him back into the mental space he felt best.

To thoughts of a diplomatic angel who was gracious to even the scrappiest of warriors.

* * *

Every morning, just as sunrise came peeking over the mountains, was when Blackwall would begin his trek. The snow was deep, only getting more annoying as he climbed the dreaded heights. There was a specific snowy mound nestled on a cliff opposite Skyhold, a little past some of the glacial lakes where the sunlight cut through the ice and shed warmth on some intriguing plants. Tenacious little bastards sprung up from the snow, beautiful white and yellow petalled flowers that caught the morning sun like some kind of earthy mirror. They were vibrant and impossibly gorgeous, yet strong enough to withstand the elements, bending to the wind so that it didn’t break yet never faltering in its will to live. 

When he looked at that sweet golden flora, his mind immediately went to Josephine. Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady. 

They were the same flowers he chose to gather for Liddy when he moved to Skyhold; once their purpose was in grief, now in something tender, devoid of despair. Flowers were the common bond between the dead and the living and Lady Josephine made him want to rediscover the elated side of a petal’s purpose. 

There was nothing wrong with giving her this harmless gift. The only harm so far was the glowering of the Spymaster whenever she glanced down from the Rookery’s balcony. Maker’s breath, it was times like that Blackwall wished the stables were less open. 

He gathered the plants up, taking a small blade to their stems as he clipped the flowers from their patch. With careful hands, he held the flowers, unwilling to put them anywhere else lest they were damaged in the hike down. The Warden stares at Skyhold from the mountainside, his eyes glancing over the fortified Keep, his mind drifting even as he stood in the bracing wind. 

Blackwall wondered, with an indulgent grin, what Josephine was doing now. Was she a morning person or a grumpy riser? He pictured her, waking from bed, her normally perfect hair in a bedraggled state as she stretched to banish the sleep from her form. He could see her sipping a cup of Antivan coffee while looking over some need to know report or passing a brush through her hair, humming or singing softly. The wind cut into the standing swordsman as he dislodged his foot from a pocket of snow. The idea of Josephine singing made him all the more curious, vehemently inquisitive to hear the melodious accent given song. 

Though they were all silly little daydreams, the thoughts put a bounce in Blackwall’s step, forcing pure joy out of him as he made his way down the mountainside.

There was far more energy to his movements now than when he climbed up. 

* * *

There was no sound in the stables, not even from the horses when an intruder made themselves known. Though Blackwall didn’t need to stay up, he preferred to remain on guard in the night, partly due to his training and partly due to his ever-gnawing guilt. 

The intruder walked forward, their steps silent to all but Blackwall as they leaned against his carving table. The Warden was sitting by the brazier, his legs drawn up as he stared into the flame, his mind alert even if he wasn’t looking outside. 

“I see you’ve been quite busy, Warden,” Leliana spoke with a hint of malice, “A bunch of flowers here, a message there, you never seem to stop,” the Spymaster turns her eyes to Blackwall even as he ignores her, “which is why I’ll ask you to stop right now.”

Blackwall doesn’t speak as his jaw tightens. He knew at some point, with the way the Spymaster had been watching him, that it was only a matter of time. It was no secret, the friendship between the two Advisors and it was certainly well known that Leliana was almost ferociously protective of Josephine. 

Which is why when an unruly, historically lacking Warden rolls in from Maker knows where and starts courting the Inquisition’s Ambassador that Leliana becomes a beast. 

“I’m not hurting anyone,” Blackwall says to the brazier, “And Josephine is an adult and a very capable woman.”

The Spymaster scoffs as she takes a step forward, her eyes digging into the Warden, “And she is an innocent in love. What you are doing is fueling what she believes is an inconsequential game. She has no idea you are truly attracted to her,” her eyes narrow dangerously, “That is if you legitimately are.”

At first, there’s complete silence. A mount shakes their head, tossing their mane before Blackwall speaks, “I am.”

It appeared to be the wrong answer as Leliana’s face contorted to one of rage, “You speak without conviction, Warden,” her tone is furious, “And I promise you this, if you dare hurt her, I will ensure you pay for it,” she regains her composure into a more chilling setting, “Grey Wardens disappear all the time, I am sure if you did, no one would question it.”

Blackwall doesn’t speak at first, his stoic nature steadfast in his expression, before he finally turns his head towards the Spymaster, his eyes shining with the silvery gleam of a stalwart warrior, “I am attracted to Josephine and I don’t give a rat’s arse whether you approve or not. What I care about is if she does.”

“And what of your difference in station, hmm? You are a no-name Warden and she is an heiress and the Eldest child to her House. Surely you cannot expect to merely rampage through her life like some charging Bronto.” 

Though Leliana speaks harshly, she doesn’t, for once, speak from malice. It’s more of a warning than an insult.

“I’ve considered that,” Blackwall starts, “and I’ll be ready for what comes. What matters to me, is what she wants,” he repeats himself in emphasis, a chivalrous statement bolstered by his unwavering belief. 

For once, Leliana has no retort as she stares holes in the man. He is unfaltering against the rocky nature of the Spymaster’s words for he is a shield, protecting himself and in so, protecting what he regards.

Leliana takes in the words and tilts her head as she considers them. In the low-light, her face is made more vicious, especially under her hood. There is only the sharp blue of her eyes, the only splash of colour on her pale face that lends emotion to her stony expression. 

“Behave or you will never see daylight again,” she speaks in a growl before turning away. Her steps are solid against the wood even as she walks with fervour in her gait. 

Finally sliding out from under the cosmic pressure of the Nightingale, Blackwall allows himself to breathe freely; a hand comes up to scrub through his hair, catching his fingers on various tangles. 

Maker’s breath, that woman. 

* * *

It was nearing evening in Skyhold and while people got ready for the night, one person remained fixed to their work, unable to pry themself away till the early hours of the morning. Josephine scribbled away at her current letter with one hand skimming a thesaurus while the other continued writing. Thankfully blessed with ambidexterity, Josephine split her attention between the two texts with ease; crafting words into sentences that could topple nations with a single wax seal. 

A knock sounded at her door, rattling her slightly as she was plucked from the depths of her concentration. She wasn’t expecting any appointments nor any messengers. Signalling for the person to enter, Josephine capped her inkwell to preserve its contents before looking up to the mystery guest.

And once more, she felt her heartbeat in her ears as the kindly yet reticent Warden made himself known, walking up to her desk; his hair looking much smoother than days prior. 

Had he combed it? Josephine felt a blush creep up her face. Had he combed it _for her_?

Nonsense. 

“My Lady,” Blackwall begins to speak in that resonant voice that sent chills down her spine, “I’ve come to return something from the common tables,” he reaches into his pocket to reveal a white handkerchief bearing the Montilyet crest, “I think it’s yours.”

Oh, he knew it was hers, but he held his tongue from the knowledge they both kept; the situation made sentimental in these drastic times, a game of playful courting.

There was a small smile on the Ambassador’s face as she reached her hand out to take the handkerchief, “I Thank you, good Ser, for your keen observations.”

He moves closer to the table, the cloth grasped in his hand as he returns the smile. As she grabs the item, her fingers brush against Blackwall’s and Maker, if her skin wasn’t coffee-coloured, the blush would have turned her beet red by now. She retreats with the handkerchief quickly, her fingers still fresh with the memory of calloused hands made strong by gripping swords. 

She gulps. 

“They’re doing well,” Blackwall says hastily, those same fingers lightly touching a flower petal, “The flowers...I mean.”

Taking this opportunity to dissipate her embarrassment, Josephine all too willingly agrees, “Indeed, they have remained stunning regardless of the time passed.”

“They really have,” Blackwall replies with a quiet tone, his eyes stuck on the Ambassador, agreeing with her words.

Josephine doesn’t notice Blackwall’s stare as she admires the flowers. Their honey yellow and white hues are still stark, especially in the lovely red vase she found for it. Her grey eyes are shimmering like opals as she stares at the flowers before directing her gaze at the warrior. Blackwall leans against the desk before bracing his hand on the wood, his attention is caught by the noble in front of him and like a moth to a flame, he couldn’t look away. 

“Thank you for the flowers, Blackwall,” Josephine says in a melodious voice, her hand moving to cover the Warden’s own, “and for returning my handkerchief,” she gives a gentle squeeze making it Blackwall’s turn to blush, “Your chivalry is noted and appreciated. Greatly appreciated.”

“Anything for you,” the Warden mumbles.

“Pardon?” Josephine inquires, her expression confused.

He feels his heart jump in his chest as he moves away from the desk, his hand untethering from Josephine’s as he corrects himself, “I said of course, My Lady.”

There’s an unreadable expression to Josephine as she stares at Blackwall, the puzzlement turning to deep thought. All within the second, the emotion is replaced with the same saccharine smile. Just like that, the moment is brushed away by niceties. 

“Ah, remember what I had told you!” she says with a musical voice, “You are welcome to refer to me as Josephine.”

The Warden gives a small chuckle that resembles old trees falling in a forest, “Right. I’ll be sure to remember that next time around. Thanks.”

He gives a small bow, his eyes looking up at the deepest part to catch the Ambassador in his gaze for just a moment. He straightens himself, carrying his form with pride as he makes his way to the door.

All Josephine could do was watch as he walked out, lost in thought till the closing door brought her back. 

Andraste’s flaming thighs, she was utterly hopeless. 

And that Warden had no right to be so...so...unintentionally beguiling.

* * *

When he wasn’t up to nighttime vigils, nor tired enough to sleep, Blackwall took to whittling wood late into the night. He’d start with a small block, passing the knife along the bar till it formed curves and lines. His father was a carpenter and like him, Blackwall picked up the skills. The Warden smiled from his place by the brazier as he scraped wood flakes into the fire. 

He remembered a little duck he made for Liddy that doubled as a pen holder. She adored the thing so much, she loved it.

She loved him. 

The knife stills for a moment before dragging the blade across again, slower and with less pressure. 

Thirty-six flowers had been thrown off the battlement today; she could have been something amazing, his talented baby sister. Like lightning arcing from the sky, she was the vibrant spark in his life, his little Liddy but they’d taken her away and-

A drop fell on the wood carving, soaking into the porous grain. His hand nor beard didn’t help to soak up the tears so he let them flow. Though he was a man of few words, taciturn and unbending, he still had emotions. 

He was still human and nothing good ever came of bottling things up. It was a fact he knew well that continued to this day, to eat away at his soul. 

He placed the little carving down, unwilling to continue his work. The crackle of the flames was his only friend at that moment, watching him silently sob as he recalled so many years ago; Liddy playing by the fire, so cold, so cold, so very, very cold.

“Blackwall?” 

A voice rang from the darkness, causing the warrior to wipe his tears quickly and grab his knife as if to fight. He held it as one would hold a sword; he was no rogue. Only then, as his vision cleared did he see the figure grow closer, and in the light, she was made whole. 

Josephine stepped forward into the stables on slippered feet; a thick shawl wrapping around her neck and shoulders to ward away the cold. Her white nightdress soaking up slashes of the orange and yellow flames.

Blackwall continued holding up the knife, not in threat but in amazement. His limbs stiffened in the second he’d been struck by the sight of night-wandering Josephine. Her unbound, wavy hair fell past her shoulders, a frizzy assortment of dark curls that looked soft to the touch. 

The knife finally lowered as Blackwall eked out some form of a sentence, “Josephine. Why….why are you here?”

The Ambassador pressed her lips together for a moment, her kohl-less eyes glancing about the room before she spoke up, “I could not sleep so I took a walk,” she began to step forward, “I noticed you still woke and...I can leave if-”

“No,” Blackwall rushes, his hands coming up in a mollifying stance despite the gripped knife, “No, it’s quite alright. You’re welcome to leave on your own accord but you’re welcome to stay too,” he pockets the knife before nervously tousseling his hair, “Sorry about the mess...It’s a barn.”

He’s caught off guard by a delicate laugh, hidden behind a tawny hand, grey eyes look back at him with utter kindness, “If I were truly concerned about any mess, I would not have come.”

Gripping the shawl tighter around her body, Josephine moved towards the brazier as Blackwall fished out a stool from nearby for the Lady to sit on. Placing the seat near the fire, the Warden ensured Josephine sat down first before he made himself comfortable on the floor.

“You aren’t going to retrieve a seat for yourself?” she inquires as the dour man sits with his knees drawn up loosely. 

“I make myself comfortable no matter where I am. It’s how I lived and will continue to live.”

The Antivan makes a noise of agreement, respecting the man’s ways as she allows the shawl to loosen. Though drafty, the barn was warm due to the brazier. The presence of a certain Warden probably factored into the steaming flush creeping up her chest, keeping her heated internally. 

“If it is permissible to inquire,” Josephine starts softly, her head tilting to look towards the carving, “Is woodworking a hobby of yours?” her eyes drift towards the Griffon idol on the woodworking table, “You possess a talent with the material.”

Blackwall chuckles as the last of his tears dry in his beard, “You give me too much credit, My Lady,” the small smile on his face is half-shrouded by the shadows and his hair, “I’m from a long line of carpenters, it’s only natural to inherit a such a skill,” his expression is wistful as he looks towards the flames, unwilling to look at the Antivan woman drinking up the small personal details he so closely kept, “Sometimes we’re given things; letting it go to waste is a real shame. Better to use it I say, no matter what you become.”

It was quietly cryptic, the words of the Warden, but Josephine took them in, accepting the monologue with a small nod. Normally, conversation was simple for her, easily manipulated to dance to her drum yet she refused to use her gift of charisma to force information out of the man, no matter how innocent her intent. Josephine wanted to hear him speak freely, to learn about the man who closed himself off.

They sat together in companionable silence, as they so often did when they were together; a woman of words and a man of none, two opposites that melded together with perfection. 

The shawl had made its way down to her hips as her temperature rose, falling past her legs as her gaze shifted to the Warden. Though he tried brushing his hair more often, it still held rough strands that desperately needed combing. In the low light, Josephine noticed a small flake of wood nestled in the hair tucked behind his ear.

She was a woman of propriety, staunchly so, and yet within that moment, it was as though she was just another commoner, lacking any form of etiquette. Leaning to the side, an ink-stained hand plucked the wood shaving from Blackwall’s hair. 

He turns his head, startled as Josephine holds up the shaving, her face mortified, “Goodness! I am **so sorry**! I don't know why- I mean- I-”

The shock in Blackwall's expression quickly fades to humour as he gives a deep chuckle at the situation, his voice booming in Josephine’s chest once again, “It’s fine, it’s absolutely fine. I’m just surprised you’d do something like that, given your...everything.”

There’s a heavy blush on Josephine's face as she shakes the wood shaving off her fingers, her gaze fully averted from Blackwall and, Maker’s Breath, he feels his breath caught by this embarrassed firelit woman, “I too am perturbed at my lack of decorum. Again, I am sorry for overstepping-”

“Nonsense,” he says adamantly, “You’re one of the most elegant ladies I’ve ever met; you’re kind, intelligent and gracious,” he gives a small smile to the flustered woman, “You’ve nothing to apologize for.”

There had been few times Josephine Montilyet had been awestruck. Once when she first saw the grand architecture of Orlais, another when she was a child watching the glittering lights of Antiva City during Satinalia. 

And now, once more, as an unkempt Warden lay his restrained soul bare, his words sparkling with truth as if honesty held his tone within its grip. He looked to Josephine with eyes of gleaming argent and an expression more docile than any had the right to bear.

It was within that moment, where Josephine found herself ensnared, like a rabbit caught in a bear’s jaws, only right now, the bear who often brought death, brought only affection. 

“I...thank you for your kind words, Blackwall,” Josephine speaks slowly, her mouth slightly agape as the arrow of his words pierces her heart.

“I only speak the truth,” Blackwall replies, his tongue stinging from the contradiction. He knows what he is, he damn well knows, yet what he’s certain of right now is that he bears only honesty to the good Lady.

And once again, silence is borne from the clumsy steps of a Warden and a Wordsmith; the night dragging its slow, dark talons as sluggishly as Josephine’s will to leave. 

From the dimming glow of the brazier, the Ambassador returns her gaze to Blackwall for the umpteenth time, staring once again at the small tangles in the back of his head.

The curious commoner within her is released as her hand moves towards Blackwall’s mane, her fingers lightly touching a knotted curl. The Warden is motionless once more as she smooths down the snags. Just a few fingers soon became her whole hand with her palm running down in repeating strokes down his hair, using her nails to gently comb through the tangles. 

It’s an odd happening indeed but Blackwall says nothing and neither does the Ambassador as she continues her motions; he relaxes beyond words, more so than he has in years. His eyes close as if in meditation. His face, still lined and brooding, but his mind, clear and accepting of the Lady’s sweet ministrations. 

“Do you have a brush, Ser?” Josephine whispers, her voice a few octaves lower than he’s accustomed to which sends a spark of something shooting up his body. 

He takes a moment to collect himself, regaining his indomitable stature despite the woman towering over him, “I... I do.”

“Can you retrieve it?” she asks, her hand still moving with every word, giving the weathered Warden a quest which he readily accepts.

The taciturn man moves away from his space on the floor, walking towards the carpenter’s table to dig in a pouch sitting near a bale of hay. He shoves aside a few items before he holds the brush in his hand, a silver and wooden-handled,thick-bristle comb that’s seen much use over the years. 

He grasps it like a low-alert sword, held to his side as he moves back to Josephine who looks radiant as a painting in her current position. No makeup and bedraggled hair be damned, she was a sight to bloody well behold. 

The firelit noblewoman gestured for him to sit in front of her which he did almost immediately, resting cross-legged in front of the brazier as he relinquished the brush to Josephine. At first, there was a pause as she inspected the brush, her keen eyes spotting the wear of the handle and a small engraving near the end of the silver grip.

Tiny letters, well-worn and faded with age splotches marring the old wood and metal. 

_L.R._

Josephine took note of the initials before she leaned forward, passing a hand under Blackwall’s mane while carefully passing the brush over his hair. Years of isolation had tempered him to accept loneliness, years of running and prideful self-indulgence had tempered him to severe penitence. Never had he allowed himself, in all the time since the Tourneys, since the Darkspawn cave, one moment of reprieve, whether it was bequeathed to him or not. He wanted to suffer, he **demanded** that he suffered.

And yet…

As the brush passed over his hair, each motion loosening a tangle, he allowed himself guiltless solace, the first in years. 

Within that dusty barn, where the stink of horses and hay permeated, was a loving woman who wanted to give sanctuary to a worthless man like him. With each brushstroke, she never allowed her smile to falter, watching the tired Warden sink into the touch; a man who always walled himself off, finally succumbing to his desire to be cherished. 

A soft song drifted from Josephine, an old Antivan folk tune, a lullaby told to feverish children and sailor's wives staring out at the sea. Like the ocean's waves, like the passing of the brush, the song weaved in and out Blackwall’s heart, stitching together his broken, bruised mind. 

He did not fall asleep, for fear of missing the song even as his eyes fluttered close in a need to rest. A wish had been granted, one he had dreamed since Haven; the golden, glittering, graceful angel sung to him in her native tongue and he wondered if there was anything in this world that Josephine wasn’t good at. 

His hair had never been softer, and within the smooth strands, held the subtle scent of a flowery perfume.

* * *

There was nothing good about tonight. He had experienced distilled hell, he suffers and so he shall continue. It was always fucking something. Blackwall sat on his bedroll, his night pants on, barefoot and shirtless as he awoke from yet another night trouble. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Fade, the real Fade, and the giant spider monster hovering in the caustic belly of the magic realm. 

He forced himself to disavow the things he’d seen, the terrors given life, so real it could touch him, so real that he touches them. The Inquisitor fought spiders and by the sweet fucking Maker, he **wished** he had gotten spiders. 

Instead, from the moment they ripped through the fabric of Adamant, they had all been forced to face their fears. Every monster that shambled forwards bore the face of Darkspawn, of Hurlocks and Genlocks, baying for his blood, beating their spined shields. 

Calling him a liar, a failure, a **coward**.

And with each swing of his sword, he felled a beast, only for the monster to change as he chopped into it. 

At times, his sword plunged through his old team, their faces haunted and cursing him for his transgressions. Sometimes as he decapitated a Hurlock, he would come face to face with Liddy’s rolling head. Other times it was the children in the caravan he stormed, their mouths are frozen in fear, their eyes leaking blood. The unending dome of the Fade’s sky was choked by swaths of screaming dogs, hanging by ropes, creating an ungodly din while blacking out the already dark sky. 

And the worst of all, he recalled as he broke in a cold sweat over his bedroll, was when he charged a Genlock, stabbing the creature square in its belly.

It shifted in that dark green light, he remembered, it took on another form as the blood pooled, soaking through a golden silk shirt.

The demon had taken Josephine’s form, and realistically enough to make him release his weapon; her eyes watering from pain, her skin paling as she attempted to clutch the pommel, slippery with her own blood.

_“You’ve killed me, Rainier,”_ Blackwall recalls with clarity, her voice, a perfect imitation; mired in vitriolic hate, _“That is all you will ever be good for.”_

He drew his knees up to his chest, a rare show of vulnerability as he covered his mouth with his hand. Laying his head against the wall, he sighed deeply, unwilling to return to bed. As he took in another deep breath, he winced, his hand coming up to check the bandage against his chest. At that moment when the demon took Josephine’s form, when he released his weapon, another monster had gotten lucky, using the moment to strike its talons against his chest. It was a deep wound, but thankfully not lethal, and like every other wound he had received in his life, this one was sure to scar. 

If Varric hadn’t been where he was when it happened, Blackwall’s body would have remained as sustenance for the Fade. A well-timed arrow saved his skin, and though Varric could not see the personally crafted demons he faced, he could see the trauma that remained with lucidity.

The Warden placed his hand over the wound lightly before pressing down, sending a sharp spike of pain through his system. He grits his teeth as he applied more pressure, causing a small drop of blood to flow from the freshly reopened wound.

Adamant had been a reminder that he didn’t deserve to heal. That his scars would remain, that he was a destesable man who deserved to be hated; Maker, he hated himself because he was a liar, coward and **not a fucking Warden.**

The creaking of wood catches him off-guard as he halts his self-torture. Blackwall grabs his sheathed sword from its perch against a bale of hay; its position poignant since his return from Adamant, his paranoia bolstered. The sharpened Silverite catches the moon’s glare through the window. He looks over his place into the first floor, his stance ready to pounce as he notices the intruder. Startled, the person releases the shawl they’ve been holding close. 

Josephine stares up at Blackwall with wide eyes before the man lowers his blade, placing the weapon back in its sheath with haste.

“Andraste’s ti-,” he grunts before cutting himself off, watching his language as he trots down the stairs, “Josephine, Maker’s breath, I almost attacked you.”

The Antivan woman gives a look of apprehension, before bending quickly to scoop up her shawl, “I truly apologize for startling you,” her voice is high strung in worry, “but the Inquisitor spoke of troubling things in the War Meeting and-” she pauses to look Blackwall in the eye, “I wanted to see if you were alright.”

Josephine stares at Blackwall, simply so that her eyes don’t begin wandering down to his powerful shoulders, nor his scarred chest and rigid muscles still taut from his prior shock. 

Too late.

She brings her eyes back up from their lecherous journey to focus on Blackwall - _yes, focus on him and stop leering at a man in obvious pain!-_ who looks back at her with that doe-eyed gaze she spied when last she visited. 

“I feel fine,” he responds, though his eyes dip down as he finishes the sentence, having trouble meeting her gaze, “You don’t have to worry about me.”

There is an exasperated sigh from the Ambassador as she gives the Warden a well-meaning smile, “If I do not worry for your wellbeing, then who will?” she’s fixed her gaze to the still bleeding bandage, her brow creased in concern, “If I am to be so bold, you do not appear to be caring for yourself, Blackwall.”

There’s a touch of shame to the Warden’s features as if he’s trying to hide behind his beard; a tawny hand is cautious in its approach as feather-light touches skim over the bandage.

“I am offering to help you see to this wound,” Josephine whispers, her eyes barely shining with tears, “It does not take a seer to know a person is in pain and you do not hide it as well as you think.”

The coffee-coloured hand retracts, not willing to accidentally do any harm to the open wound. Blackwall gives a small grunt before nodding slowly, “There's some healing things in my pack. I’ll go get them.” 

Blackwall moves with purpose, jogging up the stairs and towards his bedroll. It’s mostly dark from where he stands, searching in his meagre space, he finds the pouch with ease. Rifling through his things, he takes note of the creaking steps as feet that don’t know the silent parts of the stairs continue forward to their destination. 

Antivan women are bold and passionate, is what Blackwall remembers of his time there, and Josephine, despite all her controlled, pernickety behaviour, is still a product of her homeland.

You can’t tell an Antivan woman what to do, they follow their own path whether you like it or not. 

The Warden turns to sit, paying no mind to the breach of privacy, his legs stretching outwards from the bedroll. He beckons Josephine forward, who, without hesitation, moves to perch upon the paltry bedding.

The fussing begins.

She uncorks poultices with dextrous hands, applying balms and cleaning the freshly opened lacerations without once losing her willpower. There’s clear focus in her eyes with every pass of her hands, tracing the stinging liquid within and around each cut; dismay clear on her face. Blackwall doesn’t speak while he’s being looked after, as he so often chooses silence. For a moment, he hears the Genlock in his head, its form mirroring Josephine’s, it’s voice, like acid in his mind.

And then he’s brought back by literal stinging in his chest as Josephine applies the bandage with a firm hand, a small smile on her face as she admires her work.

He sees her, the real Josephine who seemed to genuinely care for this scruffy man; he kept the poison far back in his soul, the truth about himself that was sure to lay waste to this sanctified frivolity.

The bedroll doesn’t give the pair much space, something he realizes as he bumps shoulders with the diplomat, suddenly very, very aware of where he was and with whom. 

From the look of Josephine’s face -the subtle realization drawing in the partial darkness- it seemed as though she just noticed as well. 

“Thank you for helping me, Josephine,” Blackwall murmurs in a tranquil bass, “You didn’t have to, but you did.”

Josephine grips the shawl in her fingers as she turns to look at Blackwall, “I wanted to…”, her hand comes to rest on the Warden’s leg, as they both stay frozen as if all sense had left them. 

Antivan women are bold and passionate, this much is known when Josephine moves forward, catching Blackwall in a kiss. The man does not move as he allows the Lady to do as she wills; her hands coming up to brush against his stomach, then his chest, each pass causing his muscles to tense. 

And she breaks away, from the moment, from him, a flush creeping up her body despite the darkness. The tender touch of her hands remain on him however and they barely speak save for their gentle breaths.

“I…” the Warden starts, his heart racing far too fast for him to take stock of the moment, “Are you…”

Josephine moves her hands up, passing over every scar, brushing her thumbs over his collarbones and up his neck until she holds his face in a sweet caress, her fingers sweeping through his dense beard.

“I have never been more certain,” she says, before moving forward to kiss him again, feeling his body relax against her as he finally allows himself to be carried away.

* * *

Blackwall is a brusque man with hands that could choke a Druffalo. In his mercenary days, he’s killed more men with his bare hands than he could count. Those same hands that destroy more than build, explored every inch of dusky skin before him, learning their secrets and hidden passions. 

Josephine was like a flower to him, something delicate, but in reality, she was more like a willow, stronger and bolder than he knew. 

She enjoyed the press of his body against hers, even as his hand strained from between them, his fingers curling inside of her as she raked her nails against his back. One of her hands came up to cover her mouth as she tried to muffle her moans. It was quickly learned that she was a screamer, something that damn near spooked the horses when the barest whisper of her shout eked out. 

Blackwall couldn’t compare her to anything else but a painting, a tapestry, some priceless work of art lying beneath a thoroughly worthless man, open and willing to him. She stared up at him, eyebrows creased upwards in pleasure, tears leaking from her eyes as she continued clamping one hand over her mouth, the other digging her nails into his back, scoring crescent-shaped welts. 

With every pump, came her release, which had her body arching into his, a strained moan attempting to escape as the Warden brushed light kisses on her cheeks. For once in his life, his beard wasn’t in the way as Josephine released her hold on her face, dragging her fingers under the Warden’s jaw to pull him down into a kiss. He was blissful, as he removed his hand from their position inside Josephine’s thighs. Hunched over his bedroll, he had Josephine trapped beneath him, or more realistically, she had him trapped above her, especially when he yelped into her kiss, feeling a small smile bloom on her lips. 

Impish in its intent, a tawny hand had moved down in the chaos to cup Blackwall’s heating length. There was a deviousness to that lovely woman, a craftiness befit of her station.

Feather-light swipes brushed against him as she deepened the kiss, her only words before dipping into his night pants were, “ _Sono pronta._ Please, Blackwall.”

And as she wished, she received, especially when she asked in such a beautiful way.

Blackwall hadn’t lain with a woman since his Tourney days and even then, all his previous encounters had never once been so emotionally charged. 

Josephine held him close as he rocked into her, every thrust sending stars shooting through her spine, every thought pulled away with every breath. 

She didn’t have to worry about screaming when she could barely whisper a moan through her shattered voice. With what little strength she had in the arms of this warrior, she scraped her nails against his back until she moved her hands up into his hair, encouraging his pace, his grunting, this side of the aloof man she never saw before. 

All at once, he slowed, each floor-creaking push turning more and more sluggish as he began spending. They panted heavily in each other’s embrace before Blackwall lay against the Antivan woman, his stamina not what it used to be. Josephine held him closely, combing through his hair with her fingers, wiping the sweat from his temples before nuzzling his head, whispering sweet little things to the Warden.

Turning his head, Blackwall peppered Josephine’s neck with kisses, bringing a light giggle from the lovely Lady as his beard tickled her skin. 

Nightmares be-fucking-damned.

* * *

For hours more, they would pick up where they left off till they both grew impossibly tired. Squished together in the dusty barn, on top a thin bedroll, were a Wordsmith and her Warden. A strong arm was Josephine’s pillow as she passed her hand over his shoulders, her body pressed against his side, her hair fanned out behind her in a right mess. 

A worn blanket served to protect them from the chill of the night though Blackwall himself was surprisingly warm to cuddle against. Josephine laced her arms around his waist while hooking a leg around his, taking up as much of his skin as she could find. Through the small window, they could both see the sky which cast an ethereal glow through the wooden frame.

What looked down at the pair was a waning crescent moon and hidden in its half-shadow are the marks on Blackwall’s skin left by Josephine’s nails. He’s in her grip, the Queen of Coins and he hopes, by the Maker, that she continues holding on. 

Josephine continued giving all her attention to Blackwall, a soft humming vibrating from her throat as he felt his eyes drooping once more, the small voice in his head reminding him of his sins becomes mute under the sweet music of the Eldest Montilyet. 

* * *

There’s a hand passing through Blackwall’s hair and he thinks of Liddy, by the river, they swim together and he’s falling asleep on the banks; she puts her hands on his head and begins to braid. 

_You’re pulling too hard. I don’t have a lot of hair like you._

_Grow it out then! Papa won’t let me touch his and I need someone to practice on!_

_Alright…_

_Tommy?_

_Yea?_

_Would Mama've let me braid her hair?_

_Without a doubt, Liddy._

Blackwall opens his eyes slowly to see Josephine kneeling by his side, combing her fingers through his hair, a tender look on her face as her thumb passes along his hairline. The white nightdress and shawl is back on, her eyes forlorn as if it hurt her to depart.

A coldness in his chest made Blackwall feel the same way. 

“I must leave, _mio Cavaliere,”_ she dips down to kiss his forehead before continuing, speaking into his skin, “I’m sorry...I would love nothing more than to remain,” her other hand comes around to cup his jaw as she presses her forehead against his, “Thank you...for this.”

The brazier has dimmed down sufficiently by now but he can still see the growing light outside; dark grey against the sky signalling the approach of dawn. Even so, all he could think of was the woman holding him. Blackwall raises his arm, threading his fingers through Josephine’s hair as he brings their lips to meet. It’s a slow tangle as they savoured each other’s skin, finally breaking away from their closeness.

Blackwall begins to sit up, the blanket pooling around him as he reaches out his hand to Josephine’s; clasping her wrist to press a gentle kiss to the back of her hand, “You’ve nothing to apologize or thank me for. You are…” he looks up into her grey hazel eyes, his other hand cupping her’s, warming it in his large palms, “stunning.” 

There’s an audible gulp by the Ambassador, followed by her averted gaze, her face once again lighting up in a blush. She murmurs something before clearing her throat, recollecting herself, and her hand from the magnetic pull of the Markham man. 

“I wish you a pleasant day, Blackwall,” she says while standing up, gathering herself to leave.

And so she does, her slippers clopping against the stairs as Blackwall hears her move further and further away until she’s gone.

There’s no will to move in the Warden as he crosses his arms. Birds quietly begin their routine outside and for once, he doesn’t hear the constant self-hatred burning inside of him.

For once, he hears the birds, and even further back in his mind, the little songs Josephine sang, both in moaning and music. 

There was a small pain in his chest.

He checked his bandage and the tidy handiwork Josephine had done, seeing nothing but immaculate care; confusion in his face as he prods the wound.

The pain resonated from within and not from the cut, an anxious, tickling pain of excitement bouncing inside, his heart beating in tandem with the energy. He pressed a hand to his heart to try and still the feeling.

Somewhere in Skyhold, Josephine was in her room, dusting out her clothes before stopping. A grin spreading on her face before she brought both hands up to cover a small squeal. She tried to suppress the girlish squeaks, tried to summon the professional part of her but…

The grin just kept coming back and with it, all the memories of last night. 

* * *

It was getting harder to accept solitude; harder to affirm that eternal loneliness was his path. It wasn’t often when he’d think of it, but when Blackwall was up in his little bedroll, curled up with Josephine, he’d remember that he’s supposed to be suffering. Then she’d sigh in her sleep or smile or unconsciously brush her fingers against his chest and he'd forget once again. 

It was selfish of him, honestly, to take this pure happiness while the ghosts of all he’d wronged still hovered close. The men he’s abandoned, the people he’d killed. 

Josephine was like a panacea to him; more than that in fact. When she was with him, carnally or not, he felt like Thom Rainier never existed, like he was someone else, someone better, someone more.

He had to be, he thinks while twirling a lock of her curly hair, he had to be, for her. There was no one purer of heart than that woman while there existed no man with a blacker soul than his. 

Bringing up the blanket, he tucked the woollen material around his lover, covering her shoulders and part of her neck before folding his arm tighter around her. Sensing the new warmth, Josephine snuggled into Blackwall’s side, perfectly content, perfectly idyllic as if she wouldn’t have to rouse in a few hours to leave; to spare her family’s reputation.

He twisted slightly, his heavy eyebrows in their brooding position while his eyes held the slight shine of tears. Dipping forward, he showed his passion, leaving a long, gentle kiss on Josephine’s forehead before brushing his nose against her skin.

She couldn’t hear him, for he did not speak but there was a ringing in his chest, below the scar, within his heart, shaking in his bones, curdling in his veins.

_I love you._

* * *

When Blackwall said that he tried brushing his hair more often, Josephine didn’t believe him at first. She had given him a partially incredulous look tempered by humour. He had sighed, before looking back at her with these sad puppy eyes he had a supreme talent for. 

Oh. He was serious. 

He really was trying to keep his hair in check. 

That’s why the brushing became something of a ritual for the two; not every night was the foundation of desire. They enjoyed each other’s company, truly. While Blackwall was a man of few words, Josephine tended to have something to say. He’d often find himself listening, in the hayloft, leaning back against the Antivan, sometimes clothed, sometimes not, as she described her home, her day, her culture, anything really.

It wasn’t very much one-sided considering Blackwall wasn’t too eager to share his past but in the brief moments he felt his heart lighten, as she’d wrap her arms around his shoulders, is when he may let slip a detail or two.

And every little thing she learned always delighted her more than anything; the bright light to his darkness.

Tonight was one of those nights, where they sat either in companionable silence or shared their little chats, a brush in Josephine’s hand as she held his thick hair in a soft grip. 

“Have you always kept your hair long?” Josephine whispers as she rakes the brush down his head.

There is no response from the Warden at first; he relaxes into the Antivan’s touch before he answers, “No. It used to be much shorter.”

She knows by now that Blackwall speaks in a clipped fashion; to not expect him to continue his sentences, especially when speaking of himself. 

“My little sister used to try and braid my hair. It was a painful ordeal but Liddy didn’t have anyone else but herself to practice on,” he continues, much to Josephine’s surprise, “And I, the obedient big brother, let her toss up my hair.”

The brush stills.

There is no returned comment. It was rare he spoke of his family; for quite a while, Josephine nearly assumed he had none. 

She leans forward, laying her head against his shoulder as her arm reaches out in front of him, the brush capturing their shared gaze.

“I...noticed there was an inscription here,” she starts carefully, hesitantly, her other hand coming to point at the end of the handle, “L.R...Was this...Liddy’s brush?”

The man is like stone, like iron, steel and dragon bone. Josephine snuggles into him as he tenses up for a moment, she’s silently afraid she’s overstepped her bounds but she deserves to know more of the man she shares herself with. 

She demands it.

There’s a deep sigh from Blackwall as he empties his soul in one breath, his hand coming up to take Josephine’s, pulling it close against his lips. 

“I made it for her,” he confides sadly, his breath and beard tickling her skin, “She had...she had our mum’s hair, she did,” his lips tremble slightly, “ _Chocolate in the winter, Chestnut in the summer's_ what my father used to say about the both of them.”

The pain in his voice is palatable; Josephine lifts her hand, tilting his head towards her’s, cupping his jaw, trying to dispense some form of comfort. The Queen of Charisma, a master of the Game; she does not speak, she wants him to take his time, to take a breath.

Josephine is cautious, concerned and doesn’t want the stoic man to become distant once more.

She waits.

“They took her in the summer, the mortician,” his voice trembles as he recalls the scene, “Her bed was empty...and the wagon was already pulling away when I found out,” he sucks in a deep breath, his voice finally cracking, “My Liddy, in a **pine box** ! And all father could **fucking** say was _like mother like daugh-_ ”

And the shield breaks, his iron barrier metaphorically worn around his heart as he leans forward, sobbing, bawling in Josephine’s arms as she rocks him back and forth. 

The brush is placed down quickly so that she could hold him close, this tired man, beaten down by life, beaten down by the world and yet somehow, still standing. He doesn’t feel the kisses on his neck, he doesn’t hear the soft reassurances, he doesn’t see the tawny hands cradling him in his grief. But she tries, Josephine tries to bring him back to her and for a moment, she succeeds as he takes one of her hands, like an anchor to weigh him down.

It had been years since he last cried like this, the last being when he saw the dog, strung up by the local urchins. 

And in the din of his tears, as Josephine softly shushes him, he hears the echoes of days long gone.

Liddy is calling out for Tommy, not Blackwall.

_Thomas Rainier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading btw :) 
> 
> More insight on the references:  
> -The final scene with sobbing Tommy Blackwall references [Blackwall's romance tarot](https://dragonageinquisition.wiki.fextralife.com/file/Dragon-Age-3/blackwall_card_romance.jpg) (with the whole hands reaching around etc)  
> -[The Queen of Coins](https://dragonage.fandom.com/wiki/Josephine_Montilyet) is from a tarot of Josie I saw on the Wiki and I was like aight sis this ain't canon last I remembered but I dig it
> 
> Josephine/Blackwall fics without other pairings coming in are rare so Imma just be here making my contribution. Peace


	2. In the Ferocity of the Full Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exposed in the daylight are the marks on his skin. She's released her grip, the Queen of Coins and he pleads, by the Maker, that she will one day return.  
> ***  
> Fragments of time between a Diplomat and her Deceiver

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At this point, I'll just say, I'm working on it slowly. I adore this ship so Imma just be in the back, crafting this special fic till I can pull away and wipe the sweat from my brow and just be happy with what I made. Sorry for the long chapters, it's just how I write and I dunno where to split shit. 
> 
> Songs that made me cry while writing this chapter (the lyrics be spot on Josephine/Blackwall content):  
> [Tamino-Persephone](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeaBJfzTKl8)
> 
> [Hozier - Shrike](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bwe1O29sfRY)
> 
> [Låpsley - Hurt Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X6o5dEUmusQ) ( _*cough*_ Josephine _*cough*_ )
> 
> (Shouts **SIMP** and **CRINGE** at the top of my lungs while hanging from a banner pole in Skyhold, about to be executed)  
> 
> 
> Till next time.

The spoon knife gouged the wooden block with great care. Small curls of Ironbark got chipped away enough for a shallow indent. There’s a small pause before he takes a piece of sandpaper, rubbing the coarse pad into one of the jagged grooves. Blackwall treats his latest work as he treats his fair Lady; a gift for her with all the skill he could muster. He’s a carpenter first and a warrior second; accustomed to fixing or creating larger, tasteless things but his eye has always been attuned to the subtle arts. 

Another spiral of wood falls before he picks up his detail knife, scraping in the last etching. There’s a small pain in his shoulder that nearly sends the knife forward but he attempts to suppress the ache. A maul had caught him on that joint in his last venture to the Hissing Wastes. Though his arm was limp during that battle, he found it within himself to draw his sword upwards into a Venatori’s jaw, piercing straight through his brains. There’s a smile hidden beneath the thicket of his beard as he recalls the gory finisher.

It was a detail he left out once he returned to Josephine; her fussing endless as she looked over the splotchy purple bruise. She knew he’d seen a healer but there was heavy fretting in her still. 

Blackwall held the small statue up -streams of sunlight breaking through the barn roof- as he recalled the gentle worrying of her lip, the furrowing of her brow, her noticeable pouting. Josephine cared so much -too much- and every moment he continued on perpetuating this reputational lie, was a moment he took note of. 

Forget about himself; the truth would break Josephine’s heart. 

The Warden blew on the wooden ornament, brushing his thumb over the softly carved lines, his selfishness given physicality. In their quietest moments, after indulging in each other’s bodies or simply laying together, is when he’d remember the many things she’d told him about her past; her life laying before him like an open book. 

She dreamed often of the old Montilyet fleets, of her family, their legacy. How everything she did, in the end, was for them. How she’d stamp down the feeling of homesickness as she scribbled away in her office. 

And so, once the Inquisitor saw to the restoration of her House, Blackwall took it upon himself to help her celebrate the moment. Yes, she was now even further out of his reach, slipping away like sand, but physically, she remained.

For now, at least. 

The wood carving was the depiction of a tidal wave, with each line of curling seafoam holding a smattering of Antivan wildflowers. It had been a bitch to carve something so intricate but he needed everything to be...perfect. At the top of the wave was a boat, a decommissioned trading ship bearing the Montilyet crest. The material used to create this custom piece was certainly strong enough to resist an accidental drop; a favour asked of Varric.

The dwarf was all too happy to locate such rare materials, both for the challenge and for its purpose. At one point, the rogue had even offered to write a poem for the Ambassador on Blackwall’s behalf but he declined. Vehemently so.

It had to be his own work; something that truly meant something. 

Taking a cloth that was stuffed in his belt, Blackwall swept the shavings off the carving table, and with them, his worries for the future, for the strange, tenuous yet blissful relationship he held with Josephine. 

The stoic Warden knew what he was doing was wrong but old habits were hard to snuff. His infantile greed returning twice fold, all too willing to indulge in the ill-begotten succour a certain Antivan woman gave. 

Much like everything in his life, he was certain such happiness was soon to fall to ruin. But he was silent, as he stared longingly at the carving, his guilt manifesting inwardly and with it, the name that would follow him for the rest of his life. 

_Thom Rainier._

* * *

Rumours of the odd couple were few, if not non-existent. Josephine was both careful in her nightly escapades as well as quick to stamp out gossip. Whenever one tale popped up, she was quick to kill it. Of course, as was the nature of secrets, another whisper of the tryst would soon take its place like weeds splitting through stones. 

She didn’t know how long she could keep up this endless cycle of rumour and redirection. 

A knock on her door interrupted her consistent fretting. Clearing her throat, Josephine turned her attention to the door, a professional smile on her face as she bade the person to enter. 

The professionalism is shattered upon the door’s opening. There’s this look on her face, smitten and besotted and **poorly hidden** in all its passion. Josephine rises from her chair immediately, swiftly stepping before she rushes into Blackwall’s arms. This sudden armful of Antivan Ambassador nearly bowls over the man but he adjusts himself without a qualm. And in his eternal selfishness, he savours her, breathing in her hair, the floral perfume, the scent of her skin; imprinting her in his memory so that he may never lose her in spirit. Josephine embraces him, her arms squeezing as tightly as she could around his broad frame before she rises up on her toes. 

The arms that were once around him are now on Blackwall’s face pulling him in for a kiss. He doesn’t mind, not at all, his eyes closing briefly; noticing the small lift of her leg as she leans into him. Josephine is all starlight and poetry; something he’s come to notice almost immediately. More often than not, she’s always touching him; a hand on his shoulder, on his arm, his chest, through his hair. Blackwall likes to think, as he deepens the kiss, that she feels just as strongly for him and isn’t bound by mere desire’s sake.

They break away quickly, lest they fornicate right there in reckless abandon. 

“Quite the greeting,” Blackwall speaks as he bends down to nuzzle her neck, “Should stop by more often I guess.”

Josephine begins to tilt backwards, becoming a little too relaxed, before the Warden braces her with his arm, his attention focused on her neck still, “I brought you something,” his beard against her skin pulls out a small giggle from the Ambassador. 

Blackwall is careful as he releases her, ensuring Josephine is properly balanced, his arm snaking away from her waist. Although she’s painfully proper, Josephine takes on her sister’s personality for a small moment, her thoroughly curious expression causing Blackwall’s heart to beat faster. Maker’s beard, she was adorable.   
  


A grey carving is held up, soaking in the shadows and sunlight filtering into the diplomat’s office. 

And at once, curiosity is replaced with awe. 

“Did...you make this?” Josephine whispers, her hands coming out to brush against the smooth wood, lingering on the wildflowers, “By Andraste...this is…” her eyes begin to water as she traces the Montilyet crest on the boat, “I do believe I am crying now.”

Always the gentleman, Blackwall brings his hand to cup Josephine’s jaw, brushing the tear streaks away with his thumb, “I’m glad you like it.” his voice is that quiet baritone she’s come to love, “And it’s made of Ironbark. Good for swatting poncy nobles with.”

There’s a short huff of laughter from the Antivan before she reaches up, her hand haloed in golden ruffles as she covers Blackwall’s, her eyes closing as she savours the touch, a small sigh on her lips.

“You are too thoughtful, _mio Cavaliere._ So much so that my heart aches.” she whispers before tilting his hand to press a gentle kiss to his palm, “Thank you.”

“Anything for you,” he says, repeating words he once muffled, a clarity ringing within his voice.

Josephine blushes as his confession strikes her; there’s a clear struggle in her mind not to girlishly squeal from the sheer fairytale saccharine. Taking a deep breath, Josephine steps back from the Warden, holding his hand in her own as she brings him towards her desk. 

“Such exquisite art **must** be showcased where all can see,” she says excitedly as Blackwall is pulled without resistance, “Especially when its creator is so talented.”

Never one for praise, Blackwall makes his immediate interjection known as he attempts to degrade his skillset. Josephine cuts him off partway, sensing his apprehension. 

“You must know by now that speaking ill of your abilities will earn you a swift rebuttal from yours truly,” there is a fluency to Josephine’s speech as she claims the carving, pushing the decoration against the toy boat from the Inquisitor, “You are gifted with hands that can coax beauty from simple wood. I beg of you to take pride in your work.”

Josephine tilts her head, examining the statue’s place before turning to face Blackwall fully once more, her radiant smile faltering as she sees the Warden turn reticent again. Her lover is like a spinning coin, some moments he’s courtly and all too amorous, other times he’s aloof and depressed, his brooding features sinking more into that emotion.

She reaches out to him, passing her hand over his shoulders before rubbing the padded blue overcoat he always wore. Blackwall looks at her with pure affection but there’s a jaded despair to his eyes, more so than usual.

“What is the matter, my Knight,” Josephine worries, her hand coming up to flatten a curl of grey hair by his temples, “You’ve fallen away from me again. Please tell me what I can do to help,” her eyes are searching, grey hazel looking into silver, “Please, talk to me.”

More often than not, Blackwall condemns himself to silence, a trait Josephine accepts but has a tendency to agonize over. 

And he couldn’t blame her as they were romantically involved, however secretive their meetings. It was only natural she’d want to help him, to speak to him, to know him. Especially when she gave of herself all too freely. 

He’s torn in two, as he closes his eyes, half of him wanting to leave, to remain anonymous and rip the bandage off quickly, the other half wanting to scream his real name to the world, to the people who wanted his blood so that he had no more secrets. 

Both options would destroy their relationship but Andraste’s fucking thighs he hated lying to her. 

The burden he has to carry weighs heavily and now, Blackwall realizes with muted horror, that the weight has shifted to the diplomat. 

His name, which has destroyed so much in his life, will soon lay waste to Josephine’s heart if she ever knew. How could she love this farce of a man, if that is, she loved him in the first place.

“Blackwall?” Josephine says again, causing him to open his eyes, to see the beautiful Antivan woman wasting herself on him.

“Darkspawn,” He lies, self-hatred boiling in his chest, “I was thinking of Darkspawn.”

There’s no relief in Josephine, her expression tense as she continues passing her thumb along his temple. Yes, he was a _Warden_ and Wardens thought of Darkspawn. It was a good enough excuse. 

Maker, he was pathetic. 

“Heavy is the crown,” Josephine whispers, her fingers curling around his head as she brings him closer, her lips brushing against his.

And against his better judgement, he kisses her back with the only emotion he could express to her within that moment.

Love.

* * *

Despite her willingness to stay with Blackwall, his lodgings were not fit for a noblewoman accustomed to sleeping in a bed. Even so, she always returned to him, taking silent note of his attempts to make his sleeping area more comfortable for her. Though her back and shoulders were in much less pain due to the redecorating, Josephine still tried to remind Blackwall that he didn’t have to change his space for her. 

Always the polite route, even at her own expense. 

Blackwall would give a short laugh as a response, reassuring her that she wasn’t encroaching, that he demanded she is comfortable.

The merchants outside had looked at him strangely when he ordered the items as he was always so secretive; his bitter face making it hard to start conversations or inquire. They thought maybe now the shabby man had grown weary of roughing it, finally settling for a few of the comforts Skyhold had to offer. And indeed, he accepted the comforts of Skyhold, but not in the way they knew. 

And so, the small nook evolved from its once sparing decor. Instead of a plain bedroll and sheet, there were now a good few pillows, furs, and a much larger bedspread to lay on; a Frostback Basin touch to the drafty barn. The brazier was good for subtle warmth but as the nights drew longer and colder with winter, the Warden opted for a few lanterns to light their space. 

Blackwall would have been fine with his thin bedding as a horse is with straw but with the lovely Lady at his side, he strived to ensure their shared space was optimal for her; anything for her. 

It was amazing to him, how a woman of a higher station could forgo the comforts of her room, to delve in the muck and squalor of a stable just to stay with him. It spoke volumes to her character. 

It was probably one of the reasons he fell so hard for her; her refined yet personable ways -never snobbish, albeit a little finicky-, always accepting, always open with a mite of mischief in her resolve to explore things unknown to her. 

The horses were quiet tonight as they’d grown accustomed to their new houseguest rather quickly, they rarely roused when things went bump in the night anymore.

Tonight, however, was different. Much like the ocean bobs with several waves, each night held its own intensity. Carnally or emotionally, the coin would always spin till one side would land flat. The pair sat upright in the near darkness, a dim lantern by their bed as Blackwall held Josephine in a bear hug. Everyone found him so distant but when he was with her, he became someone else. 

Gentler, softer, sweeter. 

Gone were all the rough edges, replaced with a man who sometimes wept, who had **so** many emotions, who craved his lover’s touch, who cared so deeply for what she needed. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking normally, even for a body language pro like Josephine, but when she lay encircled in his arms, he was defenceless.

Blackwall was a surprisingly sensitive man; a secret Josephine kept with her life.

He held up a blanket to her chest, covering Josephine’s unclothed front as she sat between his legs,the furs bundled around them both. There were nights when they were more energetic, where they lay sweating and panting by each other's side, unable to breathe or speak due to exhaustion. Other nights were more relaxed, dipping into each other’s embrace or whispering some soft conversation about anything really. 

And then there were nights like this, where Blackwall held to Josephine as if she’d fade away, his behaviour mimicking someone several years younger. He pressed his lips against her shoulder, scattering kisses until they reached behind her ear, tickling her.

“You mean so much to me,” he whispered, his breath sending a shiver up Josephine’s spine, “I need you to know that. No matter what happens, I’ll always treasure you.”

There’s a depth to his tone, an outer layer of fear as if she’d forget what he said, but a core made of adoration. Such is the way of the aegis known as Blackwall, he speaks plainly with finality and mystery continually surrounding his words. He wants to say what he felt, the words that were tingling in his chest, but he’s hesitant. Not when Rainier hangs over him, not when death follows him, not when he’s unsure exactly how she feels. 

He doesn’t want to overwhelm her, he believes, when in fact, he’s simply afraid.

Afraid of rejection or simply afraid of committing when something truly terrible lurked within him, waiting to tear what they had apart. 

And so the cowardice returned with the greed he thought he banished after enlisting with the Orlesian army. 

His behaviour sickened him.

Josephine doesn’t reply at first, she as well sinks into the silence, into Blackwall’s chest, soaking up his many kisses. She brings the sheet up higher, leaning her head back as Blackwall nudges her throat with his nose.

And then she speaks, her voice for once, lacking any of the confidence she so often carries, blatant in its vulnerability. 

“I…” Josephine says, her voice soft as Blackwall rests his chin against her shoulder, “feel the same way,” she tries to sound something out, her mouth open as if to speak but lacking words; gaping like a commoner. 

Blackwall waits, placing a hand on her veiled thigh, stroking her leg softly in hopes to calm her, to comfort her, to encourage her.

“I...am...in love with you.”

His breathing stills, both of them still in fact. It’s almost immediate, the way Josephine stiffens, her shoulders tensing as she opens her mouth to take back what she said, afraid she’d oversteppe-

“I love you too,” he replies, his voice far louder than intended, “I adore you, Josephine.” he folds his arms tighter around her as a small nervously delighted chuckle escaped him. 

Josephine laughs with him, feeling warm liquid drop on her shoulder, her eyes welling up in tandem. Maker help them, they were both over-emotional.

Never before had she heard Blackwall speak with such overwhelming joy. Normally the man was all monotone but right now, it was as though he were a different man entirely. Wriggling out of his grasp, Josephine turned to face Blackwall, the Warden all too willingly gathering her into his lap as she pulled him into a kiss. 

At a moment like that, he tried to bring back his self-hatred; the screaming voice in his head telling him this was wrong, telling him that he’d pull her down with him. That he’d condemn them both into a lie.

Though his identity was just a farce, his love was not. 

Hooking her knees around his back, Blackwall felt his length stiffen as Josephine continued grinding against him in a deviously enrapturing way. For an innocent in love, she seemed to know just what to do and when. Lacing her arms around his shoulders, the Ambassador, did nothing to hide her moans, her excitement, her shared passion.

And neither did he. 

* * *

Though the night belonged to Josephine and Blackwall, the day was very much a hushed affair. The sun was not kind to them, for all their secret meeting and subtle glances could easily turn sour; in the daylight, their difference in station made itself clear, regardless of who knew what. 

That didn’t mean they were completely locked off from meeting. Most times, when Blackwall had to address something, he’d come to Josephine’s office personally where they would discuss professionally before the closed-door would allow them to behave more intimately. Even then, they had to be controlled due to the fact her office door remained unlocked during the day.

Today, however, was one of those days Josephine found herself coming to Blackwall instead. She had a minor question for him regarding the Rite of Conscription and though she could send a runner, she'd rather see him in person. 

Especially after their mutual confession. 

Josephine felt her face heat up as she moved quickly past the stable merchants, her mind stuck on a perfectly mild-mannered Blackwall and his unbridled joy. It was so rare to hear him legitimately happy, a feeling that shot through Josephine, pricking tears at her eyes again. She could barely breathe when she thought of the Warden, in all his knightly glamour and secret vulnerability. Not once did she give attention to her logic telling her about their stark societal difference, the many failings their relationship would hold, the abject horror in her parents should they find out. 

She chose to live in the moment, wholly ignorant and blinded by love so as to remain in bliss.

Blinking away the waterworks, Josephine quickened her step -not too much to start any gossip between the traders- towards the barn, her search for Blackwall already begun.

Stepping into the stable, she realized something quite quickly. The Warden normally haunted the carving table when he wasn’t training but the barn was eerily empty. The brazier held no flame, which was truly odd considering she’d never once seen it go out, not even on the windiest of days.

“Ser Blackwall?” Josephine called out as she peered around, voicing his title should anyone overhear. 

Nothing, just the rustle of grass and the sound of people about their day.

On slippered feet, she was quiet even though she made a flimsy Bard. Josephine checked each part of the first floor, even though its open-plan made everything visible. It was silly of her really if he was there, he would have shown up by now.

Josephine was quick to ascend the stairs, thinking maybe he was resting. It was another odd thought as he wasn’t a day sleeper either but it didn’t hurt to check. 

The wood creaks beneath her as she looks upon their shared bedding for a moment. Though she’s searching for him, Josephine feels pulled down into the bedding, resting on the furs as she stares at dust filtering through cracks in the barn roof. This would be the first time she lay there in the day and with silent amusement, she wondered if she could, with Blackwall, regardless of peering eyes. There are far-away dreams of basking in the sunlight filtering through the window, unclothed, unbothered, embracing as the day rolls by. A rough hand on her hip, her own on his chest. 

A sweet dream indeed.

And then she recalls, with clarity, her family, their slow to rebuild reputation. Their honour, their legacy and her duty. It would be a betrayal to consort with the Warden, a mimicry of the very affair that drove the Montilyets from Orlais.

As per her family's wishes, as per all noble family’s wishes, she was to marry someone in her status or higher. She was to betroth herself to whomever they saw fit as was tradition.

Fear curled icy fingers in her stomach as she held the dense fur between her fingers.

A loveless marriage all for the sake of politics and status, something she would have done without hesitation...that is...before Blackwall made himself known. Now that the Montilyets were restored to pure nobility, Josephine was certain she would be matched up soon. Especially considering her status and placement in the Inquisition; power-hungry players of the Game would see her as nothing more than a stepping stone and if this were a different life, she would have conformed herself to that mould even as every fibre of her body rejected the idea. Everything she did was for her family. For her parents, for Laurien, Antoine, Yvette, all of them.

Sighing deeply, she looked around once more, seeing nothing but hay bales and dust. 

There was just no sign of this man.

At once, a cloud settled over Josephine as she was forced to come to terms with reality, lifting herself off the bedding before dusting herself off. She walks, as usual, her posture immaculate, her gait, regal. Inside, however, as she went down the stairs, was a miasma of worry, sadness, fear and, squashed in the middle of it all, love.

There’s still nothing in the first floor, which feels cavernous without the woodworking Warden to putter about. Her gaze is mired in disinterest, thinking maybe he went for a hike or is training in some part of Skyhold before something indeed reached out to her. 

A small page was pinned to one of Blackwall’s favourite pieces, a wooden Gryffon. Odd. Moving closer to the item, Josephine took the paper from the carving, speed reading the contents. 

The details were formal, a notice like so many others written out in Val Chevin borne parchment. An execution in Val Royeaux regarding a grotesque murder she’d heard of years ago. Callier, she remembers her mind always fresh with Orleasian lineages, Lord Callier. 

Vincent Callier.

Josephine holds the page, her attention no longer on its words as she glances up and around at the barn.

Why was this here?

She pockets the page, turning to leave the barn as she flags down a messenger. There was a tightness in her chest at the disappearance of the Warden and though Wardens disappear all the time, Blackwall’s absence and the appearance of the page only served to upset her.

A War Meeting would be called, a few letters would be sent, inquiries would be made all of which pointed back to the very same question that began surfacing in her mind, the lovesick foolishness pushed aside for once.

Where was Blackwall?

* * *

Fear is like a man-eating Fennec. Hard to catch and hard to kill due to its fickleness; its will to tease you with terror. What is certain about fear is that if you don’t face it, it remains to eat you alive. Thom Rainier had finally come face to face with the Fennec named Fear again, and when seeing it at the gallows in Val Royeaux, staring back at him, he tried to kill it.

He tried the only way he learned how, taught to him by a dying Warden, cradled in his arms as he lay in a pool of his own blood.

Self-sacrifice.

His pathetic life for the freedom of a good man; it would be his final hurrah, the very fear he once ran from, coming face to face with him once more. The soldier stood accused of treason, his throat bobbing, knowing that his breath would be his last. 

The weather knew of Blackwall’s return, of Rainier’s return, and as was natural only in Varric’s novels, a downpour visited Val Royeaux as one man marched towards his destiny, towards the gallows that would have his neck instead.

As he pushed through the crowds, he tore off his stolen Silverite medallion, throwing it to the ground, renouncing his falsities and embracing the lie that threatened to consume him. If his actions could save even one man, then let it be.

That’s when the Inquisitor came, a far more gallant person than he would ever be. They watched the guards drag him away to jail, unable to stop the tower of cards from falling.

An arrest long coming that Blackwall -that Rainier- finally accepted, even as he sat in that cell, his lip quivering slightly as he thought of Josephine. He’d confessed to his crimes, he’d attempted to atone for his sins in one final sweep, but the damage he’d caused with such a horrific lie to a woman so sweet, cut through him. 

There was no doubt she knew by now while he stayed behind bars. No doubt in his mind she was cursing him for his lies, for his liberties, for his existence. 

He loved her enough to let her go but hated himself for hurting her in the first place. He sighs deeply, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Everything felt cold and wrong, even though he knew he did the right thing. Blackwall felt dead inside, as dead as the real Blackwall, as dead as Callier and his family.

As dead as Liddy.

Sound and fury rattles from his cell as he punches the wall, a shout echoing in the empty prison before he begins beating his fist against the mottled brick. Blackwall hunches into the wall, his chest heaving as he sobs, breaking down, each pound of his fist matching the ragged sips of breath.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears dripping down from his face, “I’m so sorry,”

* * *

In Skyhold, there’s an Antivan woman, who’s sorting her papers at the War Table, still focused on tracking down her lover. She’s perturbed at the sudden meeting but is dutiful as usual. The meeting is made even more strange as only one person enters the room. Her friend, the Spymaster, brings a chair with her which puzzles the Antivan greatly but she makes no comment. 

And she’s offered the seat, vehemently so, by the Orlesian Bard, settling herself before a long story is explained to her.

The Antivan woman listens as her face grows grim, her eyes shining, the sound of her heart breaking is as clear as bird song. Time itself seems to stop for Josephine, her world once so bright with colour and love, now tasteless, sullied and bitter.

Leliana catches Josephine as she slumps forward, like the last of the Montilyet trade ships during the storm that sealed their fate; utterly and irreversibly crushed.

And much like Blackwall, Josephine followed her lover in tears, the only difference being, her cries held more than just grief.

They held anger.

More importantly, they held emptiness, a feeling that rang throughout Josephine’s body, leaving her nauseous and cold; reeling at the words of a liar, as if the emotions Blackwall felt for her were simply that.

A lie.

* * *

It was odd, the way the weather turned. In Val Royeaux, there was a downpour heavy enough to cause flooding while in Skyhold, it was bone dry. The sun made itself known in full force as if sitting at the front row of Blackwall’s judgement. They brought him up in chains to the throne where he held his head low in shame. Blackwall doesn’t want to look up, he doesn’t want to see their faces. 

He doesn’t want to see her face.

But he forces himself to, just as he faced the last man to be hung, he faced his sins once more as the pile kept growing. 

With her heartbroken, one would expect Josephine to have not been running court but she was there, in all her splendour, her eyes still red from sobbing.

She stared straight into Blackwall’s soul, telegraphing her pain, anger and sadness. He’d never once seen her so unforgiving; she was courteous even to the most undeserving of nobles. 

Sickness boiled in Blackwall’s stomach as he looked at her, his face unrelentingly apologetic. There was a coldness to Josephine as she called out the court proceedings to the Inquisitor, her voice in a monotone, refusing to crack despite her heavy heart.

The name Thom Rainier came forward and with it, a subtle twitch in her eye, a slipping of the mask; Antivan passion boiling in her blood.

And just like that, the Inquisitor began debating, thinking hard on choices, thinking hard on Blackwall.

Josephine however, looked to have washed her hands of the warrior, her anger sinking into a shape like Vivienne, distant, detracted and thoroughly done. Short memories tortured him, of the soft tawny hands against his chest, the sweet kisses at night, the way she’d wrap her body around his. 

Her laugh, her smile, her extreme intelligence, her sweet tooth and fondness for Orlesian literature. The way she giggled when he kissed her neck, the way her hands bunched in his hair on a lustful night. The way she’d look at him, all ardor and affection shining clearly in her grey hazel eyes. 

But now, he’s omitted, his coat thrown to the side due to heavy rainwater, his undershirt ripped from the rough handling of the guards, his hair and beard a wild tangle of damp curls. He looks as he should, a man on trial, a criminal. He glances down for a moment, away from the decisive glare of the Inquisitor, away from the caustic hiss of Josephine’s expression and down to his chained hands. Little, red half-circles score the junction where his thumb met his palm, remnants of a night long gone but still fresh in his mind. 

He sees her clearly, a dissonant picture of the woman holding trial above him, his mind awash with the memory of her sweetness, her openness, her trust.

It’s but another reminder for him as they’re exposed in the daylight, the waning crescent marks on his skin. He’s in her grip, the Queen of Coins and he cries silently, by the Maker, that she will one day return.

It is a weak thought, borne of a weak man with weak hopes, but an honest thought nonetheless.

Josephine’s heart may have been broken, but she wasn’t alone in the sentiment. Blackwall stared at his former lover, her head tilted away from him, a halo of sunlight surrounding her from the stained glass.

Though he stood there, accused and belittled, he still found his mind taken up by the Ambassador. 

He would always treasure her, he thought, as the Inquisitor deliberated, as she ignored him.

He would always love her.

* * *

Faith was never very important to Blackwall. His parents may have been Andrastian but he always did things as he wished, never leaving fate up to faith. Even so, there were small moments where he wondered if he made the right decision in shutting faith out of his life, especially now when he sat in front the brazier, his life reborn and yet undone. 

Thom Rainier had been pardoned by the grace of the Inquisition and though the Inquisitor saw him as a good man and a better friend, he felt like a fucking sham. Too cowardly to lop off his own head yet all too willing to see a headsman’s axe. 

He wanted to be made an example of. 

But such is the way of fate, the same thing he placed his life in. Such is the way of allowing things to happen without once trying to control it. Blackwall stares into the fire, reminded of a time when Josephine appeared from the darkness, swaddled in a shawl, passing her hand through his hair, sparking a flame that now scorched his soul. 

He doesn’t see nor hear Leliana as she places the knife against his throat.

He doesn’t retaliate as he looks into the fire, he doesn’t move.

“I told you,” the Spymaster hissed, kneeling behind the false Warden, “and now look at the destruction you’ve wrought,” the blade pressed further into his throat, drawing a bead of blood, “Josie is inconsolable, you cretin! You toyed with her! Lied to her!”

The sting of steel matches the sting in his chest as he pushes his neck into the blade, “If there’s one thing I regret…” he speaks with a shattered heart, “It’s that I hurt her.”

A gloved hand pulls Blackwall’s head backwards, fisting his hair, roughly tugging the strands, drawing a shallow grunt from the already broken man. 

“How much more drivel will you produce, Rainier?!” Leliana seethes, the anger consuming her body, making her hands tremble, “You honestly believed everything would work out if you continued lying to her?! To all of us?!” she pulls harder, the keen edge of the blade cutting through strands of his beard, testing the wicked edge, “Once more you flail through life and are given leniency for your corrupt actions! No matter what you say, you must acknowledge that you intentionally hurt Josephine!”

Blackwall is silent in the face of death, his silvery eyes staring up through a hole in the roof, at a moonless sky, stygian black and abyssal as the Void. He is well aware of what he’s done, and he knows the Spymaster is looking for any reason, any minute iota of a chance to off him.

“Josephine is the most genuine person I’ve ever met,” he starts, his voice shaky, “Milady saw the good in all people, even a disgusting wretch like me. She went beyond her duties to assist everyone because there’s too much love in her, so much that it hurts her,” Blackwall tries to blink away the beginning of tears, “She sees the good in everything, and I love her for it,” the tears make their way down his face, pooling into his ears, “I love her so much and I know I’ve hurt her, I know I’ve broken her trust, **I know**. She made me want to be better, I was trying when I became Blackwall but I was made into someone else by her. She made me want to strive to be worthy of her.” he fights himself to stop sniffling, “I love her so much...and it’s my own sodding fucking selfishness that made me blind...I should have just left her alone…I wish I could take everything back, everything I did...but I’m lying again...I know that I wouldn’t,” he closes his eyes, his voice barely a whisper, “because I’d rather have loved and lost her than never loved her at all.”

The Spymaster is like a smear of black paint, her shadow untouched by the fire. Her eyes glitter behind her hood, as dangerous and tumultuous as the Amaranthine ocean. Her movements are quick and precise as she drags the blade across Blackwall’s throat, drawing blood, allowing the red to spill down his neck, to soak through the front of his shirt with crimson rivulets.

And his eyes close as if to accept death, as if to accept the punishment doled out to him by a true executioner. He thinks of Liddy, of his mother, of his father who’s probably dead by now.

And he stops thinking, all at once, as Leliana speaks again.

“Let this be a reminder,” Leliana says softly, her voice still jagged with rage, the blade finishing its light sweep across his throat “Know that I exist in the shadows, that I will come back to finish the job should you even look at her again,” the Spymaster stands up quickly much like a Raven takes flight, “You are alive due to Josephine’s good grace. She knew I would take matters into my own hands, and despite the agony you’ve inflicted on her, she doesn’t wish for your death.” 

Leliana walks away as her last words float in the air, “No matter how much I wish to slaughter you myself.”

And once more, Rainier is confined to himself, the threat of death remaining but this time, there’s no treason to adhere itself to his life.

Only the punishment of a thoroughly loveless existence. 

Blackwall is like a ghost, picking himself up as if his limbs lost all function, dragging himself upstairs, dragging himself towards his bedding, only to stop short. He kneels on the wooden floor, the floral-scented sheets drifting in his blurred vision; a hot spike of regret and pain pierces his chest. The scent is heavy of his time with Josephine, of all the moments he once had, of all he may never have again.

Blackwall is a man of great skill, he’s a prolific carpenter, a tourney champion, an accomplished captain, a masterful brawler and stalwart defender. As he curls himself up, he feels like a husk, his head meeting the floor as he tips over to his side, falling with a heavy thump. He feels like none of those things.

What he does feel like, is a simple human; useless, friendless, alone and unloved all due to his own wretched actions.

He can barely stand to look at his bed and as he stares off into the dusty emptiness of the barn, he recalls his freedom, his albatross broken, his days of running now in the past.

But his heart lies broken, bruised and thoroughly crushed as he slips into an uneasy rest, waking every few minutes when he begins to dream of golden, glittering, graceful...Josephine.

* * *

There are people who’ve come to hate him, like Vivienne and Cassandra; for the mage, what was once disdain is now laughable antagonizing for a pitiable barbarian. For Cassandra...well, she was already brash before the revelation. Afterwards, however, her only interaction with him was balling his coat up in her hands before pushing him into a wall, warning him to stay away.

Blackwall bears this new burden as he had all the others, no longer the moping sod from the night prior. He becomes a combination of Blackwall and Rainier, his brooding silence coupled with a will to do his duty, all while ignoring the crushing despair of his life, a trademarked tactic of a young foolhardy Thom. He still worked despite the many glances and rumours spread about him, he exits his barn when needed on an expedition, he does everything as he should, never once speaking since Leliana’s visitation. He remains reticent as he did back when he wandered the wilderness, his voice cracking when he’s forced to speak.

And all the while, he withers away, while sharpening a sword, while practising his swings, while knocking back an ale with Bull who is unperturbed by the lies. Blackwall tries to regain himself, tries to banish the compulsive, neverending visions of golden-brown skin, tries to rein in his sickening obsession.

He fails. every. single. time.

There are people who still love him, despite his transgressions, Sera and Bull, Varric and Cole, even Dorian, the pesky son of a bitch is drinking his rancid Ferelden beer, a smirk on his face as he eyes the Warrior. 

They crowd around him in a show of support with Sera and Varric spearheading this movement; a celebration, not for the fall of a criminal, but for the release of a good man who simply tried; in this world full of backstabbing bastards, trying to be better was enough for them. 

“GET THIS IN YE!!!” Sera bellows from her seat on Bull’s shoulders, a mug of sloshing ale gripped in her hands, “AND STOP FRIGGIN BLOWIN’! YOU’RE ALIVE, BEARDY! **FUCKIN’ ALIVE!!!** ”

Blackwall makes no moves to take the mug, his eyes downcast on his own quarter-drunk ale before he feels an elbow in his side.

Varric gives him an incredulous look as he points to the wobbling elf, “You best do what she says. Everyone knows ale doesn’t stay in Sera’s hands for long,” the dwarf turns his attention to the city elf who’s already downing the mug, “Ahhhh...I tried to warn you, Furrows.”

The former Warden crosses his arms, nodding his head in agreement as he nursed his ale. Every time he dipped back into his brooding ways, one of the group would try to pull him out. Though he’d much rather drown his sorrows, Blackwall felt neither hungry nor thirsty. 

He simply felt hollow.

“Spines and sorrows and spinning threads of word and wish. Sweetly singing, her body against mine so warm even when worrying, slipping in the sheets, slipping to sleep together.” Cole says into Blackwall’s ear, causing him to jump, “I’m sorry...You tried. It was wrong but you tried...please…” the riddle stops, as Cole lowers his head, “Put down the bodies and talk to her. She still lo-”

“Cole,” Varric says quickly from the sidelines, pulling the Spirit boy away from the disgraced Warden who clenches his jaw with noiseless fury, “Maybe now’s not a good time to do that. Go-” the rugged dwarf thinks quickly, “Go talk to uh, Cullen. Yea, I think he said something about...armour- ugh I can’t do this. Just go talk to Curly, alright Kid?”

Cole tilts his head at first his blue eyes stick to Blackwall, his mind is a tangle in a tangle in a knot of pain. He needs help but Varric says no. 

Varric knew people.

Varric knew when muting oneself was medicinal; when it healed the hurt without touching it.

Varric was normally right.

And he’s gone, the boy, removing himself from everyone’s eyes, making himself fit in the space where they couldn’t see him. 

Blackwall doesn’t notice he’s gone as he takes a sip of his ale, his silver eyes cloudy, ruminating on the tail end of what Cole had said. 

* * *

It would be the third time she’s pushed the statue off her desk. The carving, in all its maddening beauty was indeed as indestructible as was promised. Every time Josephine felt a twinge of rage, she’d shove the item off her desk angrily. She’d let it stay there for a moment before moving off her chair to swoop down upon it, holding it up to check for damage before dropping it again. 

The damn thing held nary a scratch. 

Placing the carving back on her desk, Josephine resumed her duties, her mind so dogged with emotion that she shoved each and every thought down as they appeared.

Every word from Blackwall, every sound, every touch, **everything**.

She’d cried enough in the beginning till she realized all her tears were being wasted. Maker help her foolish self for falling for a lying criminal. 

Josephine banged her fist against the desk in a rare flare of emotion, the other one coming up to press into her forehead to suppress the constant headache. What a good fucking actor that man was, she kept reminding herself, his words sounded so true and perfect, so genuine that she fell for it.

Her work is abandoned for the briefest of moments; since the revelation, even Leliana couldn’t pull her away. There was a bitterness to her, vicious in its intent, her broken heart like shards of glass for the most foolish of dignitaries to tread upon. She still continued her gentle nature, her sweet words to entice and ensnare allies but deeper down, Josephine wanted nothing more than to scream.

The golden ruffles of her uniform cover her vision as she buries her head in her arms, her clothes still lingering with the scent of wood and hay. 

No matter where she hid, she couldn’t escape Thom Rainier, not even in her own mind.

“No matter what happens, I’ll always treasure you."

The words send a shock through Josephine who sits up immediately, internally berating herself for wallowing in loathing, for allowing herself to be distracted from her work.

The room is still and quiet, no one is there.

Josephine believes herself to be hallucinating out of a combined lack of sleep and grief.

And he makes himself known, fits himself into her mind, places himself in front her eyes.

Cole stands at the front of Josephine’s desk, scaring her once again and he’s quick to apologize, quick to smooth down the spike of surprise rising in her like a tidal wave.

“Cole,” Josephine says after regaining her composure, “What can I do for you?”

The Spirit is thinking, his hat turned low like a scythe, raking through her thoughts before he speaks, “Your hurt touches his, that’s how I know,” he begins to stalk around the desk, never once lifting his head, “Like yarn when the cats play and the lines get tangled, I can’t pick you two apart. Slower pain like metal sinking in the ocean, bright, hot pain like the fire that forged it,” he stops to the side of Josephine’s chair, “You still love h-”

“ **Do not** ,” Josephine growls, her teeth clenched as she sees the Spirit recoil from the sudden emotional assault, “Do **not** finish that sentence.” 

His head hangs lower, something the Antivan didn’t think was possible in his current bowed state. Cole shuffles his feet, suddenly aware of them before he finally looks up, his drawn, pale face shining like a light within the shadow of his hat.

“Talk to him,” he says in one smooth breath, “He ran away, he runs, he’s stopped and now you’re running too. He runs to catch up but he’s running out of breath, you move further and further away till you’re nothing but a perfume in the wind. So much running. Stop.”

Josephine nearly chides the Spirit, she means to tell him that Blackwall was the wrong one, that he was the one who hurt her, that he was the one who ran. That he was the one who lied to her.

But the boy is gone, much like the fabled perfume in the wind. The only thing that remains is his words that latch onto Josephine’s mind as she turns forward in her chair, glancing down at the parchment before a teardrop sullies her signature. 

* * *

“What the fuck.”

A monotone statement from a monotone man who’s been caught off-guard by a strange little happening. He was outside the barn, swinging his sword, getting out all the pent up emotions, slamming down his blade with as much force as he could muster before he’s grabbed from behind. 

His combative mind commanded him to pull off their arms, turn, feint left then uppercut but he didn’t.

Instead, he let loose the chosen profanity.

“EW!” comes the person, immediately releasing him as they circle around him, “You’re all gross n’ shite. Take a bath, sweaty.”

Sera treats Blackwall’s foul mood like a game, though thoroughly incorrigible in her pestering, she knew what lines to not cross. She also thought that the best way to lift someone out of a funk was pranks, distractions and general mayhem. Today was distraction day for a certain bearded buddy.

“Can’t blame me for something I can’t control,” Blackwall speaks tiredly, “So what do you want?”

The city elf bounces on her toes before wiping her hands on her plaidweave pants, “Wanded to check up on you and your whole mopey willy business,” she grins, “ _you know_ coz your willy’s all mopey since-”

There’s a warning grunt from the bearded man, his thin patience being tested despite his love for Sera.

“Yeesh, olright, fine, be that way. Not like I didn’t know with all the noises in places,” the Red Jenny sways from side to side, her demeanour is the opposite of Blackwall’s, “As I said, checkin’ up on you, Rainhard.”

“Rainier,” Blackwall corrected, trying to get accustomed to the name he once buried.

“Rennenener.” she repeats like an ass.

“What do you want?” Blackwall says with minor annoyance, rolling his shoulder as he sheathed his blade.

There’s a disgruntled look to Sera as she crosses her arms, “Fine, be that way, yeah. See if I care,” she looks away for a moment in a rare show of seriousness, “Which I do inno. Like that’s why I’m here an’ all,” she frowns slightly, “How’re you?”

Blackwall looks down, a bead of sweat coming off his forehead, his body language softens as he sighs, “Awful.”

He expected Sera to make fun of his predicament, to jab at him with some off-topic quip. Instead, she was quiet for once, her brows furrowed as she felt the man’s pain. 

“You really fancy her don’t you,” Sera drawls, “Here you are, cuffs off and not havin’ to go around as Ser Warden Beard man and yet it’s all puppy eyes with you,” the city elf pauses, bending her body down to try and catch the former Warden’s eye, “must mean you’re all for her.”

“I think you’re forgetting the part where everyone hates me,” Blackwall responds, lifting his head back up, the sun catching his eyes.

Though there are people outside, watching the conversation, Sera and Blackwall feel isolated, as if it's just the two of them there, by the smelly stables, just talking as if no war raged on. 

And once more, Blackwall is pulled into a hug by the elf, her spindly arms reaching up and yanking him down to her height, his head stuffed into her shoulder, “Shut it. Just friggin’ shut up. Yea people are arsehurt about everything but that’s people for you,” though he can’t see her face, he’s certain Sera’s close to tears, “I don’t hate you, you’re pretty special actually n’ I don’t go around yappin’ that by just anyone,” she squeezes him harder, “We’re real and we’re here for you, Beardy, even if you’re not there for yourself.”

Blackwall returns the hug despite the whispers forming around him, his back aching from the bending but his heart finally clearing, just a little, from the anguish that settled over him.

Sera releases Blackwall instantly, giving him a friendly shove as she does so, “I know s’not gonna help but like, go talk to Josie, try n’ explain shite instead of, y’know,” she gesticulates at the Warrior, “doin’ whatever the fuck this is.”

Though he’s less crestfallen, Blackwall is still stoic, retreating back on himself as he speaks, “Leliana will have my guts for bird feed if I try,” he looks away, up into the cloudless sky, “I think it’s best I just...leave her alone.”

He feels the tap on his stomach before he lowers his head, staring directly at the city elf who punched him. Judging from the way she held her hand, shaking it and groaning, the hit didn’t seem to do what she wanted. 

“Built like a rich tit's Chantry, aren’t ya? Serves me right for tryina stop that thinky business you do” she says through gritted teeth, “Sister’s scary but what if, listen yea,” Sera leans in, beckoning for the former Warden to listen closely, “What if Lady Josie comes to _you_?”

Blackwall doesn’t voice his displeasure but it's plain to see in his face as he crosses his arms, “Do not harass her, Sera. I’ve put her through enough and I won’t tolerate you bothering her. Do I make myself clear?”

The widening of her mischievous eyes signals Sera’s surprise at the sudden aggression. At first, there was an exaggerated look of disbelief on her face; the shock of Blackwall actually snapping at her for once. 

“Oooooo touched a nerve did I?” she retaliates, “Get it? Coz I’m sure you touched-”

“How do I make you stop?” Blackwall whines, covering his face with his hands.

The Red Jenny gives him a small smile, “Simple. You go n’ talk to Josie.” 

Pulling his hands down, the Markham man sighs deeply -his main form of communication these days- as he nods, doing anything just to get Sera to stop. He loved that rascal bastard but sometimes it was trying to be around her.

And once more, he’s being grabbed, this time, his hand is being pulled forward away from the barn, away from his haunt, away from his thoughts.

“When I feel like there’s a bug up my arse, yknow what I do?” she asks Blackwall as she pulls him past the merchants, “Shut up, I’ll tell you. I like to go on the roofs yea, on the tavern, eat some shite cookies, talk to myself,” her voice softens as she tugs Blackwall forward, “Let’s go do that, right. Just you n’ me.”

“You want to stick me on a roof...just to eat cookies?” he responds, confused but not upset.

“Git the cobberwebs outta your ears, yea you. Psshh. Who else m’ I talkin’ to?”

The elf yanks the large human towards the tavern and though he was strong enough to throw her away, he allowed himself to be taken towards something new, something better.

Something to take his mind off the badness and the sadness. 

Sera wasn’t a shoddy baker either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yea, I'll be back to wipe my sweat. I love torturing the characters in my fics. Maybe I'm sadistic? I dunno.  
> Either way, thanks for reading and leave a comment if you have something (or just keyboard smash that's fine too) to say.
> 
> Whenever I think of Blackwall's inner circle quest, I think of [the concept art](https://external-content.duckduckgo.com/iu/?u=http%3A%2F%2Fescapethelevel.com%2Fwp-content%2Fuploads%2F2016%2F08%2Fmatt-rhodes-beatboard-blackwall.jpg&f=1&nofb=1) and not the actual cutscene in DAI. They hit the nail on the dramatic head for that sketch. 
> 
> Love yall dudes and I'll try to stop piling WiP's up to the heavens. Peace.


	3. In the Glow of the Lunar Eclipse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkened by the sky are the marks on his skin. He’s in her grip, the Queen of Coins and he worries, by the Maker, that she will give up.  
> ***  
> Fragments of time between the Blinded and her Betrayer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a headache. Imma go pop an Ibuprofen and catch yalls later.
> 
> Uh, thanks for sticking around, even if its like 7 years late to DAI lol
> 
> Music time:  
> [Tamino-Verses]()
> 
> [Hozier - As It Was](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v7q-4mfl_s4)
> 
> [Before You Exit-Silence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7t4qnH8tpd4)

Skyhold was an anomaly. Though the Keep sat amidst an icy wasteland, the stronghold itself bore verdant blessings within its jaws. Skyhold was a place of hope, rebirth, justice; a sword thrusted high to pierce the chaos of darkness. Even so, the weather normally took a turn for the worst once the sun set. The night spoke to Blackwall as he stood on the battlements, the wind giving him a reason to remain awake, whipping through his beard, tearing through his thin shirt. He’d gone wandering that night, as sleep evaded him, forgetting his overcoat, refusing to feel comfortable. 

Time had passed since his unveiling and as the days dragged on, so too did the people’s ire; some fading to acceptance, others holding the betrayal closely. Not once, since then, did he see Josephine fully. 

Little glimpses of her here and there dotted his memory; atop the stairs to the Main Hall, walking on the bridge towards the Commander. A golden sleeve in the corner of his eye, reflecting sunlight somewhere high amongst the Rookery cages.

She was avoiding him, and understandably so. Blackwall made no attempts to face her, and he wondered, in all his cowardice, if that was truly the best option. 

No. No, it had to be. He’d broken her heart, destroyed the way she saw him. It may be best to let sleeping Mabaris lie, especially when the Mabari in question was never in her office when he appeared. 

Resting his arms across the cold brick, Blackwall stared off into the unending snowy horizon, his lungs burning from the chilling breeze. 

“I’m glad you’re not here to see this, Liddy,” Blackwall says to the air, as he looks upwards; though lacking in faith, he truly hoped his sister sat at the Maker’s side.

In his hand are two of the flowers he found nestled in the Frostback cliffs. Though her birthday had been paid its due respect, Blackwall felt it appropriate to let loose another.

Two flowers, one for Liddy, one for Josephine.

His hand stretched over the battlement wall, watching the petals bend to the constant wind, the stems clutched between his fingers. The night howled in his ears as the former Warden was frozen, unable to let go.

He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath; he thinks of chocolate in the winter, chestnut in the summer; of ink, gold and sugar.

His grip loosens.

“You will freeze to death wearing just that.”

Always the soldier, Blackwall is quick to react even though he didn’t hear her approach. He turns, mystified at his lack of vigilance. If this were a battlefield, he would be dead.

Josephine stands before him, a few paces away, her nightdress clinging to beams of moonlight. The shawl is wrapped closely to her body; it lacks the thickness to ward off the cold but she doesn’t make that known. She tries to exude authority.

Similar to an Antivan Crow, she wears the darkness around her with the sharp glare of her eyes catching the torchlights dotting the battlements. There is only a blank look to her face, a baleful gaze with sulking lips. 

Blackwall’s heart is ground to a fine powder at the sight. He recalls, momentarily, as he grips the flowers, what she said, turning away from her to stare at the horizon.

“Maybe it’s apt that I do,” he mumbles as the wind carries his words away, “How did you find me?”

Josephine steps closer so that he may hear her with clarity, “Sera and a young man have been relentless in their visitations,” she pauses, her eyes searching, “I believe his name was Cole. They said you might be wandering here should you take leave of the stables.”

There’s a feeling within Blackwall that rises up like a fist. Though his brow creases in annoyance and his lips purse, the flowers remain unharmed by his quiet rage.

“I keep telling those two to lay off,” he exhales harshly, “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about that. Not that my sorries are worth shit.”

The stoicism slips for a moment as she looks to the flowers, to the pained expression heavy in the disgraced Warden’s face. He regards the flowers with a subtle tut, before looking to Josephine once more, their conversation a series of halting speeches.

“I’m surprised you’re here. Didn’t think you’d want anything more to do with me,” the words are more akin to a sigh.

“At first, I did not,” Josephine speaks, her arms crossed beneath the shawl, “I was angry and required time to regain myself. Sera and Cole, albeit _distracting_ , were suitable buffers for the situation,” she doesn’t relent in her glare, “I thoroughly believe everything you told me was a lie; your family, your memories...your tender feelings for me,” she holds up a hand as Blackwall attempts to interject, “Do you know why I am so successful a diplomat? Why, despite my time in the Grand Game, I am rarely despised?”

It’s a rhetorical question, that much is clear by the way Josephine prepares to speak again, “It is simply because I am impartial, in _every_ argument, in _every_ aspect of my career. I hold myself to a standard of neutrality as every dispute is multi-faceted,” her eyes are alight with repressed rage, “ _So forgive me_ , if I languished in my reaction to your…” she waves her hand carelessly, “past...I have been blinded by you, Thom Rainier.”

There is no movement from the Markham man, even as he’s stabbed by metaphorical knives, even as he feels the pain emanating from Josephine. Even as he hears her speak his name, his real name, with bitterness.

And slowly, much like a boulder trundles down a hill, Blackwall takes a knee, his head bowed as the flower petals hang in tandem.

“It was never my wish to hurt you, Josephine,” he speaks to the ground, “I deserve all the punishment I’ve received, and even more still,” though she can’t see it, there are teardrops dotting the ground, soaking into his pants, “Everything I told you when we were together, in the barn. All of it was true,” he looks up, silver eyes shining like moonlight on water, “I do love you and I’ll say it as many times as possible until you hear me.”

The anger in her eyes is being challenged, wrestling with the sadness of a broken heart, wrestling with the truth about Blackwall. 

The logical side of her had compared the two, the stories of Thom Rainier and the fresh legends of the current Blackwall. The seemingly duplicitous man who gave himself willingly to the gallows, who held such heavy remorse that it followed him.

That he tortured himself for the things he’s done and will continue to till he dies.

“The difference in station between us is too great,” Josephine dismisses, her voice slightly quivering, “There is no hope for us; a noblewoman and a criminal.”

Blackwall tries to hide the aching in his chest at the response, “If you believe there’s no hope, then I’ll accept it,” his tone is adamant, “But only if that’s your final answer.”

Though the Silverite medallion remains buried in a chest within the barn, it’s as though he wears it with pride, in spirit. In all his scrappy, sordid being, shone a champion, a defender, a Grey Warden. A knight in tarnished armor holding valor as his shield even as he falls from grace.

Josephine challenges his stare, her expression softening as she’s struck by his honesty. Words are just words, she reminds herself, and words were just that. Actions spoke louder than words. He was just speaking, simply talking, there wasn’t any substance-

She steps forward, pushing the neurotic thoughts from her mind, her eyes watering before she falls into him, caught by desperate arms, looping her own around his neck.

“I will never forgive myself if this is another ploy,” she whispers as she attempts to combat her emotions, “And I will hate - _truly and utterly_ **_hate_ **\- you if it is.”

Blackwall speaks some noise of understanding, taking her threat to heart, comprehending the gravity of her second chance. The breath in his lungs is shaky at best as he feels the love of his miserable life return to him. He holds her tightly, savouring her, brushing his fingers through her hair; his face buried in the space between her shoulder and neck. The Skyhold weather doesn’t affect him, not when his body burns with joy.

And Josephine reciprocates, as she rests her head against his, at first staring into the inky night, then closing her eyes. Her colourless bland world begins to pop again, despite the pain, despite the lies. Though there’s clear upset in her heart, it would be a lie to say she didn’t miss him. 

Every whisper of love he spoke into her skin is akin to arrow after arrow lodging in her chest. Though they felt real, she couldn’t truly tell, though they felt true, she would continue to doubt, silently, despite her own affections. Words were just words. The flames had risen high and as Vivienne once said in passing, she indeed got burned.

He had breached her trust and, in his redemption, Blackwall, Thom, that infuriatingly loving man would have to prove himself. 

All in due time.

She pulls away, nails scraping against Blackwall’s neck, his emotional burdens lifting. He makes no sound as she leans in, at first, brushing their noses, then their lips, tenderly.

The kiss doesn’t last long regardless of the sparks on their skin, lighting up their passion. Josephine’s once amorous touch turns clinical as her thumbs sweep against a long cut hidden under his beard.

“What-” she starts, before squinting in the darkness, trying to peer under the heavy beard of the former Warden.

“It’s nothing,” he replies quickly but he knows it would only stoke Josephine’s inquisitive mind, “It’s fine.”

The diplomat gave him a glare of strained patience, unwilling to cooperate with his secrets.

He sighs, trying his best not to wither under her ferocious stare, “Your big sister paid me a visit.”

There’s a look of shock, followed by anger once again as Josephine flips her emotions, “I can’t believe-! I explicitly told her not to do anything rash but of course she wouldn’t listen! She never does!” halting her rant, she punctuates the end with, “So impulsive!”

And like a whirlwind, the fussing comes back to her as if it never left, “Are you alright?” she passes a hand once over the healing wound, then upwards against his cheek, “I am unsure how deep it is. Did you visit a healer? The Apothecary? Was a vein severed?”

Blackwall tries to stifle a laugh, his eyes half-closed in joy, drawing supreme confusion from the Ambassador, “Sorry.” he tries to say, “I just...I didn’t think I’d ever see you fretting over me again,” he leans into her touch, “Thought I lost you for good, I did.”

“Very nearly,” she warns him, albeit not in malice.

A wind blows, far harsher than the others as Blackwall holds Josephine tighter, attempting to shield her from the cold. It’s a failed effort as Josephine shivers violently from the breeze, her shawl truly useless in these climes. 

Blackwall is beyond freezing due to his poor choice of clothing, something he doesn’t make known despite the conspicuous way he huddles into her.

And he feels Josephine move in his grasp, unwrapping the cloth before settling it around his shoulders, leaving her defenceless to the elements. Blackwall finds himself swaddled in sweet-smelling wool; once again amazed at the generosity of the Antivan woman. He opens his mouth to protest but he’s silenced by an elegant finger pressed against his lips, her placid smile being the answer.

Blackwall speaks no more.

She moves like a wave lifting from the sea, rising in one smooth motion, her hand outstretched to take his.

And he takes it, with little hesitance, hoisting himself up by his own strength but accepting the good Lady’s support as well. Josephine’s grey hazel eyes no longer bear the sting of hatred, though there are smaller upsets, she is healing from the wound. 

It was not a problem easily wiped away by a simple kiss and apology. She would need time, which Blackwall was all too willing to give if it meant her return. She looks to the flowers, her nightdress billowing like her hair, as a tawny hand reaches out to brush against the petals.

“One for Liddy,” he speaks slowly, his hand coming up to cradle Josephine’s, “One for you. I was...going to accept my lot in life; losing people.”

The Ambassador doesn’t speak as she feels Blackwall’s calloused thumb scrape against her knuckles. 

Then, she feels a thought, a spark of an idea, something.

“May I?”

Blackwall nods, curious to see what action lay within the acumen of his love. She slides the flowers from his grasp before moving towards the edge of the battlements. In the night, the bottom of Skyhold didn’t exist. A jet-black Void stares at Josephine.

And without aversion, anxiety or agitation, she stares back, letting go.

Spiralling down into the snow, falling away till the yellows and whites are swallowed up by the darkness, the flora becomes no more. 

“I do hope Liddy is amenable to receiving more than one flower.” 

The taciturn man is silent, his eyes welling up once again as he moves to stand next to Josephine, looping an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

“Without a doubt.” he whispers, leaning down to kiss her temple, “She would’ve liked you.”

* * *

Things had been looking up for good ol’ Thom Rainier since his night on the battlements. For Sera and Cole, however, their day didn’t start off quite as well. Blackwall had gathered the two up like mangy pups, slinging both elf and Spirit on his shoulder before setting them down outside the tavern for one hell of a talking to. Oh, he was mad, _fucking_ mad for them pestering Josephine.

The city elf mistakenly responded to his rant with a raspberry, earning her a swift ear pulling from the former Warden. She had grabbed her stinging ear, her brows furrowing as she made it clear she was just trying to help; obviously sick of his pining. Cole, despite trying to literally hide under his hat, seemed to take the lecture better.

The boy was all too distracted by the unravelled hurt in the stoic man and the golden woman to truly be harmed by any words.

Sera, in all her odd Red Jenny ability, wore a knowing smile on her face, interjecting at one point to ask how his night with Josephine was.

That only earned her another yank.

After forcing them to promise they’ll never bug her again, Blackwall gave a great big sigh before simultaneously tousling Sera’s hair and tugging down Cole’s hat.

Damn kids. They were brats, the lot of them, but he loved them regardless.

Blackwall finally let them go; the funny elf bouncing away, shouting obscenities, her tongue twisting with wicked little metaphors. Cole remained behind for a short while, finally looking up at him.

“Fire in the forge, metal on the anvil, beating together to make a beautiful shape,” the Spirit says with a small smile, “Remember to be, not just iterating inwards , inaudible.”

The boy spoke in riddles, something that would never change and something Blackwall accepted with a less grumpy frown. What did change, however, was the way he simply...walked off. Ordinarily, Blackwall was faced with an empty space instead of Cole; the air holding no human boy in its grasp. He stalked away as though he said goodbye, still unaware of social graces, somehow unaware that the Warden could see him depart.

He didn’t fault the boy, no, not at all. Looking around the tavern space, Blackwall actually felt a little proud of the young lad. Maybe he’d start drinking soon.

Hell, maybe he’ll even start looking at girls. 

Oh, what a day that would be.

As he made his paces back to the barn, Blackwall took note of the angry eyes burrowing into the back of his neck, knowing full well the Seeker stood mere feet away.

Her ferocity never faded, even though he’d tried and tried again to apologize to her.

Maybe one day, Cassandra would forgive him, and if he didn’t then he would accept his fate as he had so many times before.

* * *

They were on much better terms now, Josephine and Blackwall. There wasn’t any active avoidance from the Ambassador; slipping through the Great Hall, she’d give him a small wave, her professionalism melting away for the briefest of moments. Josephine had become relatively calm, even asking him his preferred name, albeit hesitantly.

It had caused some disturbance in Blackwall, his jaw tensing as he recalled the weight of his origins, before letting all his worries leave him, opting for her preference instead.

Curiosity and composure both crystalline on her face. Her witty tongue halting before forming words, thinking then speaking.

_Thom_

It pierces his heart, the former Warden, as he takes in the name given reprieve, the name cursed by the ghosts of his comrades, given light.

It’s a moment he cherishes like the day Liddy tied her first perfect braid. 

When he’d visit her office, Josephine was still receptive but just a tad distant; refusing to return to the intimacy they once shared.

He understood, silently, taking the distance between them in stride, that she needed time. Josephine needed time. After what she’d been through, he would give her as much as could be allowed. 

What were once many nights became none as Blackwall would trot back to the barn alone, remaining so from dusk till dawn. His space was comfortable, almost posh, but the chill of a thoroughly empty bed came through to him. 

At times, he’d look out the window while resting against the furs, uneasy in spite of his clean slate; the grating voices of self-hatred still burning but for now, were dampened. A waning crescent moon looked down upon him, reminding him of the first time he saw it from that angle. 

Holding his hand out to the sky, Blackwall allowed the moonlight to wash over his skin; nothing but scars, no sign of nail marks.

No sign of Josephine’s telltale divots spotting his skin.

His hands are unblemished yet darkened by the sky; his heart bearing invisible crescent marks. Blackwall thinks of Josephine, of the walls and trials that continue to pop up between them and it’s just all so _bloody complicated_. 

In his mercenary days, it was lay and away, nothing more nothing less. Now that he truly wanted someone, barriers upon barriers sent him slogging through problems.

There’s a sigh as Blackwall believes he’s too old for dramatics but he continues, out of love and fear that he may lose her. He’s in her grip once more, the Queen of Coins and he worries, by the Maker, that she will give up.

Bundled by the fireplace, Josephine stared out the window, a cup of tea in hand, a report on her lap. The moon was framed by the snow-capped mountains, removing her attention from everything else. Her room was warm, comfortable, secure and yet, she thought of itchy straw and sore shoulders, of a mellow, lovable man, of his scars, of his gruffness, of his mournful, argent eyes and gentle hugs. 

Josephine brushed a thick lock of wavy hair from her neck, her eyes darkening as she recalled the fuzzy swipe of Blackwall’s beard against her skin. 

Andraste, preserve her.

* * *

Leliana didn’t have any siblings, that is until she met Josephine. 

Oh, she was just so likeable, the Antivan girl, flitting around Val Royeaux like some jovial rabbit, hopping everywhere the world would take her. 

Even after her traumatic experience with Marjolaine, Leliana found herself taken up by the flighty Montilyet girl, her friendship growing despite the debutante’s naivety. The Spymaster felt an urge to protect the girl from the cruelty of other players; the cruelty of people like Marjolaine. 

She watched Josephine ascend the ladder of the great Game, never once getting caught in a trap, always several steps ahead of her opponents. 

Spanning her wings to heights her family’s name once soared, all while never losing her humility or compassion. 

Leliana couldn’t let anything happen to her, not when people lived to serve themselves, to hurt others, to reap their suffering.

The Spymaster was called to Josephine’s room and though she lacked spare time in general, she always found one or two seconds she could slip away to her friend. It was late, as she had walked the stone halls silently, even more so than Cole. The last time she’d visited Josephine at such an hour was after Thom Rainier’s arrest, taking up short residence in the room with her sorrowful friend. The Rookery cot had collected dust as she remained with Josephine, easing her through a despicable rite of passage; her first broken heart. 

The red-haired Orlesian had remembered the lovelorn look, the fragile posture, the tear-streaked face, messy hair and blood-red eyes. 

Blackwall was fucking lucky Josephine was such a pacifist; were the world different, his body would have been declared ‘missing’ and digested by pigs. 

Once she reaches the diplomat’s room, Leliana removes her hood, tapping on the door in a special little knock. There’s a pause before the door unlocks.

Josephine is radiant, a far cry from how Leliana last left her, as she invites her friend in, pulling her into a hug immediately which the Spymaster is all too happy to accept. There are few people in the world Leliana tolerated touching her and only two of them still lived.

She’s brought into the bedroom that smells of Antivan wildflowers, cinnamon and honey; the epitome of warmth. It’s a relaxing atmosphere of scholarly comfort; a reading chaise, many bookshelves and a crackling fire kept fed with richly musking logs. The walls are bathed in an amber and cream ombre glow, diluted with shadows and sharpened by starlight. 

Josephine beckons her to a fainting couch, a cup of tea made for her friend; an Orlesian blend with a touch of Andraste’s Grace. They take in the flames as the diplomat sits close to the Spymaster, their legs touching as they hold their cups close. 

Leliana had likened Josephine to a rabbit when she first met her, all boundless, gawking energy and nervous, sweet behaviour. 

“I see you were roughhousing with Blackwall.”

As the words came out of Josephine’s mouth, twisted into a singing snarl, Leliana realized that the past no longer held. A trap had been laid for the dear Spymaster and, with hushed recalibration, Leliana understood that she was no longer a rabbit; no longer prey.

Josephine was a lioness, beautiful, cunning and all too dangerous in the way she set her verbal battlefield. 

Taking a sip of tea, Leliana looks unperturbed, responding with nonchalance, “Mm? Oh, that,” she nods her head, “a simple formality. He remains alive and well.”

Grey hazel eyes narrow as Josephine places her teacup down on an end table, “I asked you not to interfere,” there’s more pleading to her tone than chastising, “Why is your first instinct to harm?”

“Because there are bad people in the world, Josie,” Leliana says without skipping a beat, “and they need to be reminded that their actions have consequences.”

Josephine crosses her arms, staring holes into the Spymaster, “I am well aware of the dangers that exist! But…” she sighs, “Blackwall is not as evil as you believe,” what was once rage is now somber, “Thom is not a bad man.”

“That’s your emotions talking,” Leliana’s expression tenses, noticing the name with distaste, “He lied to you, used you. How are you so certain he didn’t seek you out for simple lust or status?”

“Because he truly loves me, Leli,” Josephine retorts with more than a little anger, “He is trying to be a better man and Maker forgive my foolish, impulsive heart, I am trying to allow him another chance!”

The fine porcelain clinks against wood as Leliana harshly puts down her cup, “Would you give a second chance to a criminal such as him? Allow him into your bed again? A murderer? A non-committal coward?”

Each word from the Orlesian’s mouth tests Josephine’s patience as well as her resolve. She knows there’s some truth in what Leliana said. 

Blackwall -Thom Rainier- was by no means a perfect man.

He was, however, the man she somehow, despite every damned thing, found herself besotted with. A man who operated on self-worth rather than coin. 

“Were you not once a transient?” Josephine barely speaks, her tone gentle as if breaking, “A foolhardy young Bard tricked into suffering. Did you not find solace in the Maker, and therein, a second chance?” a tawny hand reaches out to cover a gloved one, “You rose from the ashes of your own follies. You may dislike hearing this, but I see a bit of you in Blackwall,” her fingers pass along the rough material, “Sullen, reticent, cold but in private, you are...loving...resplendent.”

There are no words from Leliana and she takes in the comparison. Though she doesn’t know Blackwall very well, as she rarely spoke to him, she tried her best to trust Josephine’s judgement. Though her friend remained flighty, neurotic and naive, Josephine was by no means a poor judge of character. 

If she truly saw Thom Rainier in such a light, then she had no choice but to let go; to watch from the sidelines in case her blade was needed once more.

“I understand,” the Spymaster finally says, nodding, “Consider Blackwall removed from my hitlist, for now at least.”

A well meaning smack catches Leliana’s surprise as Josephine takes to pouting, “Stop trying to kill everyone you dislike!”

“But I’m so good at it,” Leliana whines playfully, bumping her shoulder against Josephine’s, drawing a small laugh from her friend.

“I am good at ballet but you don’t see me kicking people!” 

They remain in this back and forth as the night drags on. Laughter and sisterhood is their most precious experience as they gossip, chat, unload their fears and worries, cry and simply enjoy each other’s company.

Leliana doesn’t take her leave till the fireplace has burned down sufficiently and Josephine’s eyes begin to stare with a half-lidded haziness. They remain on the chaise as the red-haired Bard hugs her tightly, one of the few people in her life she adores that still draws breath.

And as sisters are, sisters remain, each one harassing the other, each one laying a trap for each other. 

If Josephine was a lioness, then Leliana was a bird of prey. 

“If your stubborn love for this man is true,” she says with a wicked lilt, “then you should know better than lying to a liar,” her leather gloved hand rubs tender circles on Josephine’s back, “Be sure to tell him of your betrothal to Lord Otranto before your idyllic little tryst implodes.”

The drowsiness flees Josephine’s body quicker than blood from an open vein. The raking cold starts in her stomach, moving up till her head is burning with a nauseating chill. She tries to move back but Leliana holds her in place; far stronger than her soft-bodied friend. 

“Be careful. I do not want to see you hurt. Your parents are good people but they are Antivan...as well as traditional nobles. They will not take kindly to Blackwall.”

Losing her will to fight out of Leliana’s grip, she sinks back into the Spymaster’s arms, “Ah...they will do more than that,” Josephine says sadly, her eyes fluttering closed so she doesn’t let tears out, “They will probably disown me.” 

The fire is dying down with Josephine’s mood, what was once a sweet moment between close friends is now a tense meeting of the future and all the failings that follow. 

“If you need anything, please tell me,” Leliana whispers, rocking Josephine slowly, “I will do my utmost to assist.”

Josephine mutters her thanks before the Orlesian releases her, tucking a few curls of black hair behind her ear before nodding, signalling her departure. Gloved fingers curl around her teacup as she downs the remnants of her tea to the dregs, wincing as she realizes it's cold.

She bids her friend farewell, who lingers comfortably on the chaise, her back arching forward, arms outstretched before curling into a ball. Yes, she was indeed very cat-like but that silly rabbit behaviour still remained no matter how Josephine tried to hide it. Though she remained away from Blackwall, Josephine seemed peaceful, a levity Leliana noted with relief. 

She shuts the door to Josephine’s room, all sweetness and warmth leaving her immediately, all niceties left in the bedroom. With quick hands, Leliana flips her hood upwards, making her way back to the Rookery on ghost-like limbs. 

Even in the shadows, the Spymaster walks with surety and should Josephine ever require her abilities, she needn't call her.

She would know.

Leliana always knew.

* * *

The Spymaster waits a week before she does anything rash. It’s a timeframe once set by a young Josephine to a young Leliana. If _you want to do something impulsive_ the Antivan used to tell her, _then please, let the thought sit for a week before you cause chaos._

And now, every time Leliana thought to make a big decision, should time allow it, she’d wait a week and no more. The waiting would give her ample time to think about her actions, regardless of how badly she wanted to enact them. There had to be a cause to her chaos; a well thought out reason and enough time to consider the repercussions. 

After exiting the Rookery for what felt like the hundredth time, Leliana stared out from the balcony, her full attention on the barn as she spied a certain man at his woodworking table. Josephine and Blackwall were like bloody dogs, both play bowing to each other in hesitance, their lines of communication oh so very ‘Antivan romance novel’. 

All pining and apprehension.

On day 1, Leliana allowed Josephine time to explain her proposal situation to Blackwall, waiting in the wings till she’d hear an update. Nothing. She’d gone to Josephine herself who had looked upon her many parchments with anxiety. 

Her silence was deafening.

On day 2, Leliana had made a cup of tea to soothe her nerves as she continued her vigil, seeing nothing but the former Warden and Master Dennett about their day. She was so lost in thought with her observations that a lone Scout managed to make her jump; the teacup crushed in her closed fist. The Scout quietly asked Cullen later that day if they could be transferred to his command. 

Still nothing.

The same result followed for days 3, 4 and 5 until finally, the Spymaster had enough. 

For all her declarations of infatuation, Josephine was moving like a slug stuck in bog water, refusing to tell Blackwall till she was able to respectfully uncouple herself from the engagement her parents planned.

Leliana leaned against the circular bannister, her mood soured significantly. Josephine may have been a prolific player of the Game but as a player in love she was utterly, impossibly and frustratingly indecisive.

Bunching her red hair in her hands, the Spymaster closed her eyes as she tilted her head back, thinking hard on how to help the duet.

What was Josephine good at? Ballet, singing, drawing, the Game, organization, diplomacy, doll-making...

And that’s when it hit her, her blue eyes opening wide as she realized what she had to do to help the hopeless pair. Walking quickly, Leliana shoved the door to the Rookery open, causing various Scouts to stand at attention.

She acknowledged them with a sharp nod as she made her way down the stairs. There was a realization burning within her to act, the impulsiveness scalding passionately within her.

_Wait for another week?_ Leliana thinks as she carves a warpath to the barn, _I would rather eat a nug._

* * *

“I won’t hesitate,” 

Leliana stood with an eyebrow raised as she kicked up a little loose straw in the barn. It may have slipped her mind how aggressive her last confrontation with the former Warden was, especially since he went against her wishes. 

Well, Josephine was the one who sought him out, but Blackwall was still wary of what the Spymaster might do. 

And rightfully so.

Years of brawling honed his stance and though she could easily take him on, Leliana didn’t have time to waste on such frivolities. That and she was sure if she miscalculated a dodge, he’d easily cave her head in with those meaty bear paws. 

“I have no doubt in my mind,” Leliana said with her hands behind her back, a show of peace, “And I care not for our last meeting. Water under the bridge.”

Blackwall is slow to lower his hands, his eyes flashing in suspicion before he relaxes his stance. 

“Josephine got to you, aye,” he speaks gruffly, a mite of humour in his tone.

Leliana reciprocates; a small tilt of her head as her response, “By now, I am certain we have both experienced her wrath. Never again shall we disappoint her, no? I will keep my knives away and you,” she stalks forward, a finger pointing lazily in his direction, “shall never deceive her again.”

“You have my word. Milady is adept at her special brand of warfare and I’d like to stay away from your blades.”

Their mutual agreement hangs in the air for a moment before Leliana steps closer, her mood flattening, becoming solemn, “Despite your snivelling confessions, all seems to be unwell” Blackwall follows her with his eyes, intaking her speech, “Josephine still retreats from you, but with good reason of course.”

“Stop. Dancing.” Blackwall growls, his patience for convoluted monologues wearing thin.

“It was my intention to notify you with some level of class… _but_ if you must be so brash,” Leliana spits out, “She is to be engaged, Blackwall.” he opens his mouth to speak before Leliana cuts him off, “and not to you.”

Josephine had said Blackwall was akin to the Spymaster with emotion buried deep beneath his grumpy exterior. 

Josephine was no liar like her lover. 

His bravado fell away instantly with the soft sloping of his shoulders following the slackness of his jaw.

And his eyes were clear, unburied by his heavy eyebrows, reflecting like metallic moons. 

It was the look of a devastated man.

“Engaged?” he sputters weakly, quickly regaining his rigid form, his expression becoming brooding once more, his voice, like a scraping bass, “What in the Maker’s heaving balls are you talking about?”

“And here I thought you understood Common Tongue,” the Spymaster jests, much to Blackwall’s annoyance, “Her parents are wholly traditional Antivans and as the Eldest child _and_ a daughter, it is only natural they marry her off.”

The Warden shakes his head slowly, “Does she even know the lad?” he begins to worry, “Is she accepting the proposal? What-”

“Your fretting is giving me a headache,” Leliana interjects, her hand pinching her nose bridge, “Don’t you think these questions are better suited for our Ambassador?” 

Blackwall is silent, his eyes darting around, deep in thought, panic rising in his body before Leliana pipes up again, “Though I care not for you, Josie is smitten, irrevocably so,” she pulls at her leather glove with a deadpan stare, “So if you are willing to fight for her then I am at your disposal.”

The words pique Blackwall’s attention as he steps towards the Spymaster, heavy boots scraping against the wood floor as Leliana comes face to face with a thoroughly determined man.

“What would you have me do?”

A wicked little smile curls Leliana’s lips upwards, her mind for stratagem sparking off as she recalls the very thing that brought her the idea.

The Game and its slow duels of influence.

Blackwall had no influence under his fist but he did have experience as a swordsman.

They both knew that he was ready to play his part, no longer in pretend but as a real knight.

* * *

It had meant to be a quick meeting to explain everything he heard from Leliana. Instead, when he visited Josephine, she simply looked at him, half in worry half-irritation. 

Thankfully that agitation wasn’t directed at him for once. 

Creasing a page under her thumb, she breathed deeply before sending him away, a steely look in her gaze and her timbre, sharp.

_I will discuss this with you later today. Not now. Not here._

And so Blackwall went about the rest of his day, anxious and upset, his stomach roiling even as he helped Cullen train his recruits and collect firewood for the Kitchens. He hadn’t received word from Josephine since he visited her office and as the sun began sinking, he worried that she was putting him off again.

Maker, just as things were looking up too.

The sun sets, painting the sky in stars once more, as Blackwall feeds the brazier, his nightwear on and his mood, dipping low. Night had long since fallen and his mind filled with many terrible thoughts. What was once neurotic thoughts of the men he’d betrayed now swirled with fresher terrors. The fact he’d lose Josephine again, the fact she may be putting him off to marry this poncy bastard.

Everyone had secrets, and though his were out in the open, he felt a little slighted at her secrecy.

Even if he had no right to feel that way.

“I apologize for the wait.”

Her voice rings through the barn, chasing away his worries as he sees her step forward in her nightdress and unbound hair. Josephine’s expression was tense but not unforgiving; her return being the first in weeks. 

“It’s good that you’re here,” he says, watching Josephine walk towards him as he looks for a chair, “We need to-”

Antivan women are bold and passionate, something he recalls from their first night.

Blackwall catches Josephine as she throws herself forward, her hands gripping the back of his head as she locks lips with him. His eyes are wide as she deepens the kiss, brushing her tongue against his mouth, pushing herself further into his body.

He grunts slightly as Josephine’s nail’s dig into his scalp, his hands finding purchase on her rear, holding her up. It takes all his strength but he pulls himself away, even as Josephine continually follows his movements, laying her lips on his at every moment.

“Stop,” he mumbles against her skin as she finally releases her hold, “Just stop and talk to me, please.”

He whines slightly, despite all her passion and lust. He’s worried for her, for them, and he’d rather not have his concerns dissipate in her licentious gaze.

Looping her arms around his neck, Josephine sighs, resting her forehead against his, “It is a difficult situation, one borne of reputation and politics,” leaning forward, she nuzzles into his shoulder, “Handling this poorly can drastically affect my family’s name regardless of our elevated status,” a short huff of laughter is felt against his skin, “We Montilyets are a dying breed after all. I will not see my family suffer again.”

“I’ve no reputation to lose,” Blackwall says as he jostles her upwards, “Let me fight for you,” 

She pulls back immediately, her hands on his shoulders, grey hazel eyes wide with worry, “No...Thom you cannot. I will not allow this. Duelling is rarely fatal but terribly dangerous,” her thumbs move to brush the scar setting on his neck, “There are men and women who have been so grievously maimed in fights that they sentence themselves to an early grave.”

“I’m no weak-minded bastard, love. I’ve had my fair share of stabbings,” he says, his mind still lingering on the way she said his name, “I can take a fight.”

He leans backwards a little to support her weight, holding her tightly against him, “I can take ‘em.”

She sighs, a habit she’s picked up from Blackwall as she lets her gaze linger on the gallant man holding her.

“May we retire to bed,” she whispers in tense syllables, “Withdrawing from engagements is surprisingly stressful..And I wish to spend what time we have…without...vulgarity.” Josephine is quiet after the sentence, her lust receding quickly replaced with something far more tender.

Though inexperienced compared to Leliana, Josephine understands the ways of sexual relations; the constant give and take demanding attention to fuel a relationship. Sometimes yes, she was eager and fond of it while other times, something different was required, something less carnal.

The relationships Josephine held prior to Blackwall all died under that fluctuation. The pleasures of flesh seemed more important to her previous paramours. 

And she waited for the former Warden to speak, to finally revile her for this consistent teasing she’d been blamed for in the past. To ask just what in the Maker’s name was wrong with h- 

“Of course, love,” Blackwall replies, unperturbed, bracing Josephine against him as he begins to move, a small smile on his face, “Up we go, ey.”

Staring in surprise, Josephine was slung over Blackwall’s shoulder, never once complaining; confused at the acceptance. Maybe one day his views would change, things always changed.

And yet...he remained. 

Josephine smiles as she dangles from Blackwall’s shoulder, “You need not carry me there. I have legs. Perfectly good legs.”

The stairs creak as he ascends with ease, looking far more like a Barbarian hauling away some pilfered woman than anything else. 

“You’re damn right they’re perfectly good,” he says playfully, earning him a small slap on the back.

“You are incorrigible; utterly tactless.” Josephine speaks as her arms hang loosely. 

And she’s deposited on the furs with care, the very place she’d been avoiding from fear and anger, now melting away as Blackwall kneeled before her.

Like so many novels she’s read as a child all the way to her teens, Josephine has been bogged down by the idea of fairy tales. As she grew, she came to despise them, knowing such magic rarely flourished in the real world. Even so, some part of her hoped, deep down, that there truly was such a thing as a knight in shining armour.

Blackwall takes her hand, slowly like some precious piece of art, his eyes closed as he presses his lips against her knuckles.

He is an imperfect man, followed by his sins, a liar and a murderer. A crude, maligned commoner who sleeps in a barn and doesn’t trim his beard.

There’s a whisper against Josephine’s skin, the lanterns around them lending a glow to the dingy barn as he presses her palm to his cheek. 

_I love you._

Who needed a knight, who needed a prince, who needed any of that when you had someone better.

Someone who loves you. 

* * *

Folded against his chest, Josephine sits in Blackwall’s lap, both swaddled in blankets as he passes his fingers through her hair with nary a tangle. Though she’s ready to sleep, Josephine refuses to nod off, knowing that it will be even harder to cover her tracks to the barn once morning comes. Knowing that this may be their last night in a while as she does damage control. 

Thom, as she’s come to know him, barely speaks but he makes it known that she can ask him anything. He makes it known that he won’t hide, that every ugly detail of his life will lay before her lest he makes another mistake.

It’s a dangerous amount of vulnerability to show, especially to a woman who wields information like a mace, but Josephine is different. She has no reason to hold things above him nor knock him out of society. Josephine chuckles slightly, a breath scraping across Blackwall’s chest as she processes her thoughts.

The man was as outcast from society as one could be.

She fell in love with a maskless man; nothing but dedication, penance and goodness filled his soul. 

Josephine doesn’t realize Blackwall is asleep till she feels even puffs of air against her hair, his head tilted to the side.

Blackwall seems peaceful. 

Thom seems peaceful. 

The back of her nails pass along his cheekbone going down till they run along his neck, switching to barely graze against his chest. Josephine relaxes, reclining into him, her last words preceded by a small peck on the tip of his nose.

“ _Buona Notte, mio Cavaliere_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, thanks for reading. Yall out here keeping the fandom alive
> 
> I appreciate yall, i hope you guys know that. Either way, Peace out. Headache is STILL HERE!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I love these two. I just want to see them happy so I put the canon in a headlock till it passed out. Then I proceeded to re-write absolutely fucking everything. I'm taking my time with this (like all my other works) but I'll be back. Feel free to snipe my fucked up [ **Tumblr @w-h-4-t**](https://w-h-4-t.tumblr.com/) in the meanwhile. Peace.


End file.
